


Of Lyrium and Lightning

by Karyukai



Category: Dragon Age II, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Dean/Castiel alternate universe, Destiel - Freeform, Dragon Age II - Freeform, Dragon Age II Spoilers, Human Castiel, Knight Dean Winchester, Lemon, M/M, Mage Castiel, Supernatural - Freeform, Templar Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-08 16:01:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karyukai/pseuds/Karyukai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is from a renowned family of templars: ruthless, but who get the job done no matter what. When he's shipped to the depraved city of Kirkwall to squash the malificar infestation, the last thing he expects is to be undone by a mage, but not just any mage, a mage he should hate on principal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ACT I

**Author's Note:**

> I play the app game _Heroes of Dragon Age_ , because I have no life, and one day I got a notification saying ‘Castiel! has attacked you!’ I thought: “Castiel? Plus Dragon Age? What a surreal combination!” The result of that is here before you. 
> 
> This was meant to be a one shot, which is why this fic is written episodically, but it spiralled into being the whole plot of _Dragon Age II_. Needless to say, **this story contains significant spoilers for the second and third act of DA2.** Also Lemon.
> 
> Some of Anders dialogue I gave to Dean and Cas, as he has some poignant lines on love and mages living conditions, and it seemed a shame not to utilise those. I also haven’t mentioned all of Hawke’s companions because I didn’t want this to be a crowd of shapeless people, so I picked a few I felt suited the context and suited Cas and Dean’s story. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy!

Ten years doing his job, born and raised in a family of templars. Every Circle in Thedas recognised the name ‘Winchester’, so it was a wonder that Dean no longer recognised himself.

His father would have disowned him.

* * *

After the Warden ended the Blight and Dean had helped to reinstate the Circle at Lake Calenhad, Dean was shipped to Kirkwall. He’d festered with outrage, throwing up over the boat throughout the entire voyage. He tried to aim for the side of the boat as much as possible, hoping he’d stain the oak planks with his vomit.

“Kirkwall is rife with blood magic and apostates. They need someone like you,” Knight-Commander Greagoir had said.

“I was promised Orlais!” Dean retorted. “I’m Dean Winchester, not some dolt from Gwaren.” He should have kept his mouth shut.

Greagoir’s cool exterior cracked, like he’d been holding in his resentments for a long time. “That’s exactly your problem, _Dean Winchester_.” He spat Dean’s name as if referring to a contagious pestilence. “You’re going to Kirkwall, that’s final, and maybe you’ll remove the pole wedged up your arse! You’re disrespectful, you drink on the job, and we can’t even send you out to catch escaped mages because your methods are too brutal. Combine that with your harassment of our... _prettier_ mages, and you’re not fit to be a templar. If I could have it my way, I’d discharge you right now.”

Greagoir inhaled a deep breath through his nose and recomposed himself. Dean clenched his fists and ground his teeth. It was all he could do not to lose his temper.

“As it were,” Greagoir continued, level-toned once again, “Knight-Commander Meredith would welcome a _Winchester_ in Kirkwall. She heard about your heroics when you aided the Warden in clearing out the tower last year. Lucky for you.

“Don’t worry, you won’t be going by yourself. I’m losing Ser Bran as well. Although if I had it my way, I’d keep him and send you alone...”

When their ship had sailed into Kirkwall’s docks, Dean had vowed he’d make Greagoir eat his words. He’d make Kirkwall’s Circle the most obedient and blood-magic-free zone in all of the Free Marches. Who better to achieve such a thing than him?

But now... Now he wasn’t so sure. Where was the dedicated, unaffected legacy that spoke for him in all of his outstanding achievements? Where was his resolve? His wariness? His vows?

How could one mage unhinge him?

* * *

He first noticed Castiel in the practice library. It was hard _not_ to notice him, really.

As Dean passed through the library—after summons to Meredith’s office—he felt an uncomfortable pressure on his skin, growing stronger and stronger. He froze mid-step and looked over at the nearest long table. A young man with untidy black hair and dressed in a beige cowl flapped his hands at a growing ball of light.

Dean sensed the energy inside that flickering tempest like a sixth sense, warning him that nothing good would come of it.

“Stop!” he bellowed.

The mage twisted on the spot to look at him, eyes wide with panic, and the sphere of light expanded to twice its size.

“I didn’t mean to!” the mage replied. “I can’t...”

A force stronger than the Frostback’s winds lashed at Dean’s chest, and before he could cast a barrier, he was wrenched from his feet. The magic sucked him in and slammed him onto the long table. His breastplate winded him and his head hit the wood, eyes blurring.

Forcing his arms to push him up a little, Dean saw that the mage was no better off. He’d been slammed into the floor and his head looked bloody from smacking the flag stone. Not good. The sphere of light recharged and grew big again, preparing for another strike.

Staggering back onto his knees, Dean summoned the Maker’s will. He heard lyrium sing in his ears and let its pleasurable buzz rush down his arms. He spread his arms, then swiped his hands close together, drawing all the strength he possessed to purge the sphere of magic currently swelling in size.

His power built and built, the energy rippling off of him. Dean ripped his hands apart and a wave of cleansing energy engulfed the room before him. The sphere of light vanished.

Cradling his winded chest, Dean slid from the table. He noticed three templar recruits watching him from beside the bookcases. They were still quite fresh, maybe one or two years in training. _Why are they the only ones monitoring the library?_

“That was amazing,” said Ruvena, pushing her blonde fringe from her face. Dean had run into Ruvena a few times, but he still couldn’t decide if he liked her or not.

The man beside her had pulpy eyes that widened in recognition. “You’re Knight-Lieutenant Winchester!” he gasped. “I never thought I’d see you in action.”

Ruvena snorted.

Giving the recruits a nod of acknowledgment, Dean hunched over the groggy mage. “You alright?” he asked, helping the man to sit up.

“Yeah, I think so.” The mage touched his forehead, dipping his fingertips in blood. He looked at the red stains as if he’d never seen such a thing before.

Quick as a flash, Dean ripped off his sash and wiped the man’s fingers, then gruffly wrapped the cloth around his head.

“What’s your name?” he growled.

“Castiel, ser.” He winched at Dean’s rough treatment, but didn’t complain.

“What the blazes were you thinking? You can’t experiment without a Senior Enchanter present.” Dean turned his glare on the three recruits. “And you, why isn’t anyone stationed here?”

They stammered and exchanged looks. Ruvena found her tongue first. “Clearly no one was meant to be in here,” she said.

“ _Clearly_ ,” he shot back.

Dean pulled Castiel onto his feet, who swayed woozily against his grip. He didn’t look like much of a threat, more like a half-asleep idiot, but they couldn’t take any chances. Reaching into his energy reserves, Dean bathed Castiel’s body in negative energy, silencing his magical talents for a few minutes.

“One of you,” he said, looking more at Pexley, who had a paranoid, obedient disposition, “send someone skilled at healing down to the holding cells. Immediately.” Pexley jumped, his stupid moustache twitching, and ran off at once.

“Come on,” he muttered to Castiel, and pushed past the two remaining recruits who were still staring at him with bright eyes.

Dean dragged Castiel along at a merciless pace. “What were you trying to do?” he snapped. “You’ll be put into confinement for this.”

“I understand,” Castiel mumbled, hanging his head.

His acceptance surprised Dean, but he wouldn’t let his vigilance slip. “Did you speak to anything untoward? Did something convince you to attempt that spell?”

“No, I just knew no one would let me try it.”

Dean scoffed. “And for good reason, obviously.” He marched them into a deeper part of the gallows, where the old iron gates to the dungeons stood open. Down they went into the torch-lit corridors, past the eerie golden statues of crying slaves. His grip tightened on Castiel’s arm, waiting for the inevitable bucking and pleading— _no, I’m sorry! I won’t do it again! Please! Let go of me! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!_

It never came.

A templar Dean didn’t know came into view, sat at a table outside the guard room. He jumped to his feet as Dean approached.

“Knight-Lieutenant,” the man greeted.

“Good evening. This one needs a quiet cell to himself for the next fortnight,” Dean said.

The templar’s eyes slid over to Castiel and he shook his head. “Castiel, what a surprise. What did you do this time?”

Dean glanced between the two of them. “This is a regular thing?”

“Often enough,” the templar replied. “You just don’t learn, do you, mage? Did you try to escape again? Meredith will have your head one of these days.”

A fierce flash of light passed behind Castiel’s eyes, revealing the first hint of a personality. “She can try,” he hissed.

At that moment, hurried footsteps sounded behind them and a mage ran down the steps. She jogged to a stop before Dean and doubled over, out of breath. “I came as quick as I could,” she panted. “Who needs healing?”

The other templar laughed. “You got a healer for _Castiel_?” he said to Dean. “He’s one of the best we have, you needn’t have bothered, especially not for that mere knick.”

Regardless, Dean unbound Castiel’s head and watched the girl heal him, while the templar on duty went off to find the key to the solitary confinement cell. Once Castiel was clean and not even a scratch remained, the duty templar cast another silencing aura over him and took his arm.

“Wait,” Castiel said. He looked back at Dean, his eyes piercing. “I owe you my thanks, I suppose.” The mage bowed his head, the respectful gesture so foreign to Dean that he drew in a slight breath. No _mage_ respected him. “Thank you,” Cas said.

Dean didn’t catch the subtle mockery in Castiel’s voice.

If he was trying to wrangle out of his punishment, it wouldn’t work.

Dean cleared his throat. “Just doing my job.”

* * *

Later, in Meredith’s office: “You’re a man after my own heart,” the Knight-Commander said. She leant back against her desk and folded her arms. “You don’t take any chances. You’re vigilant. I like that.”

“You do?” Dean’s ego purred, unable to resist a smile. If only Greagoir could hear this. “I mean, thanks. I do my best.”

“I can see that. You do what needs doing, and I hear Castiel is in solitary confinement again.” Meredith sighed. “That man never learns. He’s a hazard to himself more than anything else. You were right to make that call. So...” She raised her proud chin. “You’ve been with us for three months now, how are you finding it?”

“Not too bad, once you get used to the smell of sewage.”

She laughed. “I can’t deny, Kirkwall isn’t exactly renowned for its charm.” Her sharp eyes narrowed, though not unkindly. “I called you here on a matter of great importance. As you might well be aware, Kirkwall is rife with blood magic and abominations. No one wishes to help mages more so than I, but sometimes there are mages who threaten our society, and they must be put down for the benefit of others. I sense you might agree with me?”

Dean nodded. He didn’t hate mages but he didn’t like them, either. They didn’t understand how dangerous they were, and their stubbornness to deny it had made him more than a little unsympathetic over the years.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good. I want to put you in charge of a team. You will investigate and eradicate any apostate threat, I’ve heard you’re good at that. If there are some that can be brought back alive, the better, but Kirkwall _also_ isn’t renowned for having untainted apostates. You will soon see that we are sick with those corrupted by power.”

* * *

For the next month, Dean did exactly as he was asked. He had a knack for following clues and putting the pieces together. Many a time his hunts led him to the sewers beneath Darktown and almost every mage reacted the same way.

One quick slice across the hand, a splattering of blood, and another demonic abomination arose; only to find Dean’s righteous blade. They just wouldn’t listen. One wrong word from Dean and they lost it. Totally out of control, and they wondered why the Circle was deemed necessary.

In that first month, Dean’s squad brought one mage alive to the gallows—she actually turned herself in—and eradicated three blood mages. The highlight of all this success was his squad’s approval: they didn’t doubt his methods, and certainly not Knight-Commander Meredith. Having a familiar face like Ser Bran by his side only bolstered his broken ego.

Dean was, at last, settling into his father’s legacy.

* * *

He took another swig from his brandy flask, just as Knight-Captain Cullen came charging up the corridor. Dean almost choked, not wanting the self-righteous prick to notice. He ducked through the nearest door as calmly as possible and shut it softly, as if afraid of waking an ogre.

Incense assaulted his nose and he cringed, turning to face the statue of Andraste on the other side of the room. He bit down on a curse as he spotted someone kneeling in front of her effigy, recognising the beige cowl at once; no one else wore such a bland robe.

Tip-toeing as best as his armour would allow, Dean took a seat in one of the pews and unscrewed his flask, watching Castiel in prayer. He’d forgotten all about the man he’d condemned to solitude.

“Oh Maker!” Dean cried, making Castiel jump. “Free me from this wretched place and curse the bastard who had me confined for my stupidity.” He met Castiel’s defiant glare. “Am I close?” When he got no reply, Dean grunted in satisfaction and raised the sweet brandy to his lips. He stared up at Andraste, wondering what she thought of him drinking in this sacred space.

Dean felt Castiel’s scolding glare still upon him.

“What?” he cried.

He noticed Castiel’s fist tighten. “This is a holy place.”

“So?” Dean toasted to Andraste. “I’m sure she had a few in her time.”

“I am _praying_.”

“I can see that. Best get back to it. Everyone knows that the Maker hates it when you don’t kiss his backside every five minutes.”

Castiel rose slowly to his feet, never once looking away from him. Dean swallowed the taste of cherry and spice in his mouth, feeling cowed by the mage’s hostile gaze. He wasn’t afraid, he’d faced too much to be afraid of a fight, if it came to that, but something in Castiel’s demeanour did intimidate him. He possessed an inner strength that Dean had never seen in anyone else before, a wilful defiance. Unbridled confidence in himself. Not so half-asleep after all.

He approached Dean without hesitating and stopped by his pew. The candlelight glowed across Castiel's handsome face and illuminated the depths of his blue eyes. Dean tried to force out a reprimanding word or two, or at least a scowl, but nothing pushed past his lips except hot breath.

Castiel’s gaze trailed down to the flask in Dean’s hand. He snatched it from him and drank the rest of Dean’s fine Antivan brandy.

“Hey!” Dean jumped up but he didn’t snatch it back, just watched Castiel’s throat ripple as he drained the last of it.

Licking his lips, Castiel thrust the empty flask against Dean’s breastplate. “May the Maker bless you,” he grumbled, his voice rich and deep. With that, the mage turned and left.

 


	2. Beneath Moonlight and Andraste's Flame

Two more blood mages dead. Did none of these people have the dignity to at least die as humans? Why did they all resort to dealing with the nearest demon waiting beyond the Veil? At least it made Dean’s job easier, he supposed. Killing that blustery young girl today would have been hard had she not transformed into a hunch-backed rage demon.

The afternoon sun blazed down on the gallow’s courtyard when Dean and his templars returned. He squinted against the harsh light, positive he’d never get used to it. A part of him missed the heavy Fereldan rainfall.

As he mused about rain and green countryside, Dean spotted the beige cowl out the corner of his eye and diverted his path without even registering it. Castiel was chatting to the young woman who had turned herself in last month, her turquoise robes edged with white fur and the dress embroidered in bronze thread.

“Hello there,” Dean said upon approach. The girl dipped her chin at once and ceased talking. Castiel turned, shielding his eyes against the sun. His mouth pressed into a thin line at the sight of Dean.

Ignoring him, Dean smiled down at the girl. “Bethany, wasn’t it?”

“Yes ser.”

“I see you’ve met Castiel. Don’t pay too much attention to him, he’s a notorious troublemaker. I’d hate to see a lovely lady like yourself get swept up in one of his schemes.”

She looked up at him, puzzled, and he gave a genuine grin. Whatever Bethany saw pleased her and she brightened.

“He seems alright,” she said, nudging Castiel’s arm. “Perhaps you just need me around to keep him in line.”

Castiel’s grim expression softened and he smiled down at Bethany fondly. When he wasn’t frowning, the mage had a gentle face with deep smile lines around his eyes. Dean felt an unexpected tug in his chest.

“What do you want?” Castiel asked Dean.

Bethany visibly tensed, not missing the edge to his tone either, it seemed.

“Nothing to do with you, I assure you,” said Dean. “Just checking on Bethany.” He winked at her and she raised one eyebrow. “Keep him on the straight and narrow, you hear?”

“I’ll try,” she replied.

“Excuse me then, some of us have work to do.” Dean gave Castiel one challenging look before turning on his heel.

He took two steps before Castiel’s voice reached him. “How many did you kill today?”

Dean stiffened, then snapped his gaze back. “What did you say?”

Bethany took a step away into the shadows of a pillar.

“How many, _Dean Winchester_? I hear you love protecting mages so much that you can almost beat the magic out of them.” That spark of anger shone in Castiel’s eyes again as he spat out Dean’s name in the same disgusted tone as Greagoir.

Fury trembled down Dean’s arms and he stormed back to him, stopping so close that they almost stood nose to nose. Castiel didn’t retreat.

“I’ll beat it out of _you_ in a minute,” he growled.

“How many today?” Castiel whispered.

For a second Dean couldn’t speak, unwilling to tell him, as if he was _ashamed_. This idiot had no idea what the real world was like, what might happen to a mage if he didn’t have the safety net of the Circle.

“You’ve never seen an abomination,” Dean hissed. “You’ve never tried to help someone, only to have them stab themselves at the slightest provocation—one wrong word. You’re all so sure of yourselves, but you can’t even control simple elemental magic half the time.”

Dean realised he was crushing Castiel’s arm in a fierce grip and let him go. In case he blurted out anything else, Dean turned and charged away, heart hammering inside his ribcage.

* * *

 

Finishing his patrol of the corridors, Dean let his feet guide him to the rear courtyard. It had been two days since he’d lost his temper with Castiel, but still that man’s gaze remained burned into his mind. Castiel’s silence was worse than any insult, that damning anger in his eyes was chilling.

Moonlight painted the sparse courtyard in white and Dean sighed at the warm, peaceful air. Maybe he didn’t miss Fereldan’s weather; warm, dry nights such as these were rare by Lake Calenhad. He lowered onto the bench and sighed as the pressure eased in his feet. He closed his eyes for a moment and let the soft breezes ruffle his hair, seeing only Castiel’s accusing glare.

Dean knew he wasn’t a good person, but he didn’t think he was as bad as Castiel implied.

Sighing again, Dean lifted his skirts and removed his brandy flask from his leg pouch. Just as he unscrewed the cap—

“I do not think you’ll find salvation at the bottom of that flask.”

Dean jerked upright, feeling a rush of anger at the sight of Castiel. “Andraste’s tits, what do you think you’re doing?” he hissed. “It’s past your curfew!” When Castiel showed no repentance, Dean got to his feet and gripped the hilt of his sword. “I shan’t warn you again, mage.”

“Will you strike me down if I refuse?” Castiel replied, slow and stern.

Dean’s grip tightened around the pommel, that sickening tug returning to his chest. Maker, he despised those deep blue eyes. Not sensing any active spells on Castiel, he grunted and sat back down.

“Not this time,” Dean said, and finished unscrewing the flask cap. As soon as he caught a whiff of the brandy, however, he no longer desired the heady fire it promised. He had to remain vigilant—at least, around this particular mage... After digging into Castiel’s background, he knew this man came from a long line of untrustworthy fools.

Castiel strode closer until he loomed over Dean. “What happened to you?”

Dean glanced up at him. “Come again?”

“You clearly have no regard for your Order, _or_ mage rights, but...I can tell you’ve got some sense of warped duty in that thick skull of yours. What happened that’s coloured your opinion of us with one broad stroke?”

“That’s none of your damn business.”

“If you’re our so called ‘protector’, it’s every bit my business.”

Dean busied himself by returning his flask to its pouch so as not to reach up and shove Castiel away. “Sit down and shut up, or piss off,” Dean said. “Pick one, mage, or I’ll pick for you.”

He expected Castiel to leave, most other mages would have, but he sat down next to Dean and hunched forward, fixing him with his unblinking, level stare. An unwelcome heat crept into Dean’s face.

“Your family has much blood on its hands,” Castiel said.

“Do you think I came out here to be badgered by your accusations? I know what my family is, and I know what I am.” _A man with no way out._ “My father raised me to be a templar, he taught me and my brother everything, and that even a mage with good intentions cannot be left to govern himself.”

Dean tried to recall his brother’s face, but all he could conjure up was Sammy’s floppy brown hair and broad shoulders.

“How nice to _have_ a family,” Castiel said, and Dean winced, not about to correct _him_. “I was ripped from mine when I was six. I had seven brothers. My parents were threatened never to visit me or else my brothers would suffer, one by one. One of them died anyway, trying to break me out, and another set fire to a Calenhad templar outpost. They hung him for it.”

Dean almost said ‘serves him right’—it was the appropriate response—but the words got stuck in his throat. “I’m sorry,” he murmured instead.

“You’re _sorry_?” Castiel grabbed Dean’s shoulder guard and yanked him across the bench. “It was your father who ordered his sentence and that I be sent to Kirkwall!”

Dean seized Castiel’s wrist, but the mage wasn’t letting go. “Obviously to stop your idiot brothers from attempting more reckless stunts! My father did what he had to, and I’d have done the same!”

“Same old rhetoric! Does it help you sleep at night to tell yourself that it’s all necessary?”

“ _Yes_!”

Dean’s voice echoed dangerously around the courtyard and Castiel’s grip loosened. He stared at Dean as if he’d disappeared and been replaced by a stranger. Yes, of course it bloody helped. What did Castiel expect? He tugged the mage’s hand from his shoulder guard and threw it aside.

“I know what I am,” Dean repeated, “and I know what I am not.”

“What are you not?” Castiel whispered.

“Heartless.”

A vulnerable look passed over Castiel’s face, his scowl softening as it had for Bethany the other day, and Dean chilled as he felt some part of him soften in kind. _Oh Maker, no. Not him._

Rising from his seat, Dean took Castiel’s arm and dragged him off the bench. “Come on, it’s past your bed time.”

He marched Castiel back to the mages’ shared quarters without a word and held the door open for him, jaw clenched.

Castiel hesitated before going inside. “Goodnight,” he muttered.

Dean just nodded, his gaze impassive, and Castiel disappeared into the dark barracks.

* * *

 

In recognition of his success at hunting down apostates, Meredith deemed he no longer had to do something as mundane as patrol duty. Dean should have rejoiced, he loathed patrol duty, especially at night when it was most boring, but instead he felt a twinge of disappointment. His work took him out of the gallows so often that he rarely had time to visit the mages he was supposedly protecting.

Despite needing the sleep, Dean took to patrolling after curfew anyway, hoping to catch a certain someone out of bounds.

After a few nights without incident, he returned to the rear courtyard, removed his brandy and drank until he slept. He woke some hours later, sensing the presence of magic.

“Mage, what are you doing?” he demanded, jolting at the sight of Castiel who watched him from nearby. “Were you _watching_ me sleep?”

Narrowing his eyes and tilting his head, Castiel turned to the elfroot patch behind him without answering. “I came for this,” he said.

“Stealing elfroot is—”

“One of the elders has joint rot. She needs something to help her sleep, I’m not brewing an evil potion.” Castiel stood and held up two large leaves. “See, not much I could do with this.”

“Unless you were hoarding them. That’s why you came here the other night!”

“Yes.” Again, Castiel stared him down and approached with that familiar, slow, confidant stride. “You caught me. I’m plotting some grand scheme to retaliate with a bushel of elfroots.” He stopped in Dean’s personal space, raking his eyes all over him, as if daring Dean to lash out.

“If I catch you out here again, mage,” Dean hissed, “I’ll—”

“Put me in solitary? Stop me from visiting the front courtyard? Run and tell Meredith? What, _Dean_? Short of making me Tranquil, there’s nothing that will keep me from taking the herbs I help to grow.”

A mix of fury and understanding left Dean speechless. He stood his ground, mouth shut, one hand clenched around the hilt of his sword. They were so close he could smell Castiel’s skin and hear his soft breathing. Dean bit his bottom lip as a he felt more than a heated tug in his chest this time.

Castiel pushed past without so much as a noise of disgust. Just the same silent condemnation.

How _dare_ he.

* * *

 

The next week Dean had the energy to spare, his patrol took him to the inner Chantry. He slipped between the quiet pews and chose a place by the aisle, staring up at Andraste. He toasted to her.

“I’m losing my touch,” he told her. “Why can’t I scare him?” But Dean knew why. He liked Castiel’s audacity too much to push him away. As much as they should despise each other (although he suspected Castiel despised Dean enough for the both of them), they were not so dissimilar. They worked the same ‘charm’ over people—the same determination to do things _their_ way. He respected that.

The smell of incense, the taste of cherry, the dim candlelight, thoughts of Castiel’s cursed face...  It all lulled him sleep. He woke to discover Castiel watching him nearby. Dean jerked upright, startled.

“How do you manage to sneak around so much?” he croaked. Dean had to report this. He should toss Castiel in the cells. Throw him before the First Enchanter. Beat him until he learned not to underestimate Dean—he’d been too lenient.

“Why don’t you report me?” Castiel asked, half a challenge, half a serious question.

Dean pretended he didn’t hear and got up from his seat. Approaching the candles at Andraste’s feet, he took the taper from its stand and lit it, transferring the flame to two blackened candle wicks: one for his father and one for his brother. If his father had any idea of what Dean felt right then, he would have beaten him into the next life.

Why didn’t he report Castiel? He just liked the man’s company. It made a curious change. He felt connected to him, and for reasons he’d never speak aloud...

Dean liked the conflicted twist in his gut; the feel of two emotions burning him up inside. Desire and duty. But this time his desire ran deeper than a yearning to breach taboo, it consumed him, and he wasn’t sure if he could trust such a feeling.

“I don’t know,” he said to Castiel, turning to face him. “Perhaps I’m waiting for the moment you slip up. _Really_ slip up.” Dean approached and let his gaze travel from Castiel’s narrow eyes and down to his waist, hidden beneath the tatty beige cowl. “The real question is why do you keep seeking me out, _mage_?”

“I do no such thing.” Castiel stuck out his chin.

“Right, you just stumble upon me all the time.”

Castiel squinted at him, silent, and Dean smirked.

As Dean strode from the Chantry he cast over his shoulder, “Next time you come find me, don’t just stand there and watch. It’s creepy.”

* * *

 

He couldn’t get Castiel out of his head. Almost every moment Dean questioned his own behaviour, his motives, his personality—all because he wanted some (definitely attractive) mage to approve of him. How pathetic. His father really would have disowned him, and not just because Castiel was a mage under his watch.

But maybe Dean could stand to be a little bit nicer. It had to be in ways that Meredith wouldn’t notice, however. Her insistence on tightening their grip on the mage populace was growing stricter than ever, even by Dean’s standards, and part of him pitied the fear that existed in every mage now, whether Dean Winchester was watching their every move or not. Constant fear was not the same as wielding it to good effect.

He’d heard rumours from Ruvena and Pexley that Meredith was forcing templar initiates to go through terrible ordeals just to prove their resistance to magic... One recruit had even gone missing.

The months passed and Dean didn’t run into Castiel again. He caught glimpses of him across the front courtyard, or hard at work in the library, but Dean gave up patrolling the halls at night, resigning himself to the torment of desiring the untouchable. But his chance to reform his callous ways came about soon enough, and in the most unwelcome manner.

Dean’s squad cornered a blood mage in the sewers again, a boy who couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Young or not, the boy wrought an ungodly wrath that Dean hadn’t seen anything like for years...

Dead bodies rose from where they’d fallen down shafts, and Shades, beyond counting, escaped the Fade to do the boy’s bidding. Outnumbered and foolish enough to underestimate the young man, Dean’s squad suffered a terrible beating, but he surely endured the worst.

A Shade caught him with his back turned, and pierced through armour and flesh in one strike. The ethereal stab punctured his left side and a wave of hot blood gush down his hip. Winded with pain, Dean crumpled onto his knees and his squad called for retreat. They dragged him out of there, but Dean lost consciousness as soon as they emerged in Darktown.


	3. Bitter Bonds

Castiel hated them, _all_ of them, especially Dean Winchester—arrogant, beautiful, murdering bastard. And so he cursed himself for hoping that every armoured footfall might be Dean coming around the corner. It never was. His work took him elsewhere: off murdering children and desperate souls. _Remember that. He’s trying lure you into a trap._ He’d even admitted it, and so Castiel stopped seeking him out to antagonise during night time patrols.

But his thoughts always returned to Dean’s plush lips twisted with torment, his weary eyes, his well-trained impassiveness. His anger. How could he test Dean’s resolve? Dean said he wasn’t heartless, but where was the proof? Castiel knew he’d already seen it staring back at him, but he wanted more. He wanted more of Dean; to chip away at him until only his darkest secrets remained.

The poultice in his hands screeched as Castiel ground his mix of spindleweed and thistle too hard, earning him a few scathing remarks from his peers.

Just as he pushed it away, unable to focus, a templar burst into the room. His eyes landed on Castiel and his stomach plummeted. What now? He tried to think of the latest thing he might have done wrong, but he’d stopped sneaking around, so that couldn’t be it...

“Castiel,” the templar panted, “quickly—he’s dying.”

“Who?”

“Ser Dean!”

As if drawn by that name Castiel left his place at the workbench, but stopped himself from going any further. He felt everyone’s eyes upon him: who hated the Winchesters more so than he? How dare they request his healing skills. Good. Let that man die, he deserved no less.

The templar waited all but a few seconds before launching across the room and dragging Castiel out of there. He gripped Castiel by the scruff of his neck, propelling him along at a sprint.

What poison could he use in place of a healing remedy? What deadly spell could he get away with? _Maker, forgive me._

They climbed up to the templars’ quarters and pushed their way into a small room. Five men stood around Dean’s bed, but the first thing Castiel noticed was the simplicity of Dean’s chamber. It held nothing but books, stacks of them piled on the floor, along the shelves, under his bed and lying open on the desk. A literary man?

He scowled when he noticed a crate of imported Antivan brandy in the corner.

“Castiel!” The templars pushed him to Dean’s bedside and he staggered forward. “Do something, quick. ”

Death looked like it had already claimed him. Dean’s pale face shone with cold sweat, his closed eyelids greying. Castiel absorbed these details without thought, instead focusing on how stressed he looked even in a state of semi-consciousness. Dean’s brow was stuck in the same old frown and his lips quivered against the chill that slowly sapped his life away.

“Move it, mage!” spat one of the others. They shoved Castiel and his knee hit the bed frame.

A burst of hostile magic heated his blood, but he suppressed it before the templars noticed. Turning on them, he said, “There’s too many of you, I can’t focus. Someone go get hot water. The rest of you, get out.”

“How dare you...” started Ser Mettin, his bulbous nostrils flaring.

“Do you want me to heal him or not?”

A younger templar squeezed in between them, the one who’d been shipped over to babysit Ser Wonderful McMurder Pants earlier in the year. “Enough, let’s not start fighting,” he said. “Everyone do as he says, Ser Dean _needs_ healing.”

Grumbling, all but Ser Mettin and the young templar, Ser Bran, left the room. Full of energy, Bran turned back to Castiel. “What else do you need?”

“I need three lots of elfroot, two spindleweed and...and two lots of deathroot.”

“Deathroot?” barked Mettin. “What the bloody hell do you need that for?”

“To poison _you_ , obviously,” said Castiel, voice level. “Leave the thinking to others and just get what I ask.”

Ser Mettin looked ready to explode. Without looking at Bran, he ordered the young templar, “Get what the mage requires,” and sat on the stool by the door, folding his arms.

Of all the templars to be stuck alone with...

Together, Mettin and Castiel removed Dean’s breastplate and gambeson, revealing his toned body beneath. This man really worked hard at being the ultimate killing machine. His hardened torso narrowed at the waist and his arms were thick from wielding sword and shield. Before they flipped him onto his front, Castiel caught a glimpse of the anti-possession tattoo that all templars bore on their chest.

Ser Mettin hovered by Castiel and watched as the mage smoothed his hands around the wounded area, smearing blood across Dean’s back. The hole was frayed and deep, and Castiel swallowed against the disgusted swoop in his stomach.

“What did this?” he asked.

“A Shade.”

“This is too severe. My magic won’t help him.”

Mettin grabbed a fistful of Castiel’s hair and shook him hard. He cried out in surprise. “You will fix him, even if it kills you. Now get on with it.”

With Mettin watching his every move, Castiel had no choice but to exhaust himself in an effort to close Dean’s wound. Being struck by a Shade meant that the injury wasn’t dirty—unlike being hit by a human weapon—so Castiel knew a fever wouldn't take him, but the Shade would leave behind a poison far worse. It would eat and corrode and linger in Dean’s body no matter what Castiel tried. Perfect. All Cas had to do was put on a show, a real show, because he knew nothing would save him anyway.

By nightfall, Castiel could barely sit up. He’d stopped the bleeding and mended the internal damage, but there was little else he could do. The last of the wound wasn’t healing no matter how much magic he poured into it.

Ser Bran sat Castiel down in the corner and handed him a bowl of broth. “Good work,” he said. “Leave the elfroot to me.” The templar took the remainder of the healing balm and pasted it across the seeping gash in Dean’s back.

“He’s lost too much blood,” Castiel murmured into his bowl. “He’ll be dead by morning.” At least he didn’t have to make up some lie about deathroot being good for injuries of the Fade. _Thank you, Maker._

Bran slumped to his knees and Mettin stormed out of the room; no doubt to get some other healer who could take Castiel’s place for a few hours.

“The last Winchester...” Bran whispered.

Castiel cleared his last mouthful of broth, positive he’d misheard. “What?”

Bran glanced at him. “Ser Dean is the last of his family left alive. His mother was killed—practically murdered—when he was four, and his father died five years ago, along with his brother.”

_Two candles._

Castiel lowered his bowl and stared at the mound of muscle draped over the mattress. “What happened?”

“I don’t know much about his father or his brother's death, no one does really. Dean was the only one present when they died. All we know is it involved a blood mage and that Dean managed to slay their killer. As for his mother...” Bran shook his head. “She was stationed at a templar outpost by Lake Calenhad, when one night some bastard sets it on fire. She and one other templar sacrificed themselves to allow their comrades to escape. Dean’s younger brother was only a babe... They caught the boy responsible, though, and Dean’s father ordered him hung by the neck until dead.”

Castiel no longer felt hungry. He almost dropped the bowl as a sick, guilty ache churned his gut. Dean had to have known. _That’s_ why he never... No, that didn’t make sense. Why didn’t Dean ever punish him for sneaking out at night? Or beat him for his rudeness? Or at least slap him for staring without a hint of deference? Why hadn't Dean slapped him for simply existing? He’d stolen Dean’s precious brandy right out of his hands, for goodness sake, and Dean hadn’t so much as shaken the front of his robes.

Ser Bran sniffed and patted Dean’s shoulder. “Everyone says that Dean is just like his father, but Ser John was selfish. Heartless.”

Another lance of guilt punched into Castiel’s chest.

“Don’t get me wrong, Dean _is_ his father’s son, but these last few months... I don’t know what’s changed but he’s grown mellower. He drinks more, yes, but he’s...kinder, I guess. He asks questions before running straight into a fight nowadays. He suppresses a blood mage’s power for as long as possible, trying to pacify rather than kill, which is a really ineffective use of our energy. It leaves us drained, but Dean holds it even if it leaves him incredibly vulnerable...like today.

“He’s always stood for protecting mages from themselves, and despite it all, I think he’s only ever done the best he can. Thank the Maker he grew up though, eh?”

Castiel watched as Ser Bran bandaged Dean’s back and rolled him over. Then he picked up the bloodied rags and poultices scattered across the floor. “I’ll be back in a moment. Keep an eye on him.”

As soon as he left, Castiel crawled over to the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress. It seemed pointless to strangle a man so close to death, but such ideas were already abandoning him.

“Maker, guide me...”

Dean had lost his mother because of Castiel’s older brother, and Castiel had lost his brother because of John Winchester. Perhaps Dean just didn’t blame Castiel for his brother’s actions? The one to blame was dead, after all, and Castiel was _not_ his brothers. Guilt ate deeper into his heart. Castiel had not paid Dean the same courtesy. He’d chosen to detest him merely for being John’s son. The brandy-loving bastard lying before him had more charity in him than Castiel, who prided himself on being a devout hand of the Maker. He would have joined a Chantry had he not been born a mage.

Reaching over, Castiel smoothed the last remaining frown lines from Dean’s forehead. He certainly was beautiful...

Castiel sighed. There was _one_ thing that might save Dean’s wretched life. His affinity with wisps and spirits wasn’t as keen as other mages from the Circle, but if he could ensnare the right one, it might be enough to bring Dean back from the edge of death. His meagre spiritual ability put him at risk of corruption, but asking for another mage’s assistance was out of the question. The templars would never allow for this kind of solution, including Dean himself.

A twisted part of Castiel liked that.

Closing his eyes, Castiel allowed the ever present Veil to grow weaker around him. The Veil in Kirkwall was threadbare anyway, and in a matter of minutes he could hear spirits whispering in his ear.

None were malicious so far, or at least, he didn’t think so.

‘ _There’s only one way you can save him now..._ ’ said one.

But if he’d known the true price, Castiel never would have asked.

* * *

 

Another day. Sunlight streamed through the narrow window at the foot of his bed.

_What day?_

Dean’s brow creased as a headache throbbed behind his eyes and his body didn’t respond. A low croak escaped his mouth and then someone was there, leaning over him.

“You made it!” Dean recognised Bran’s voice. “Here, you must drink.” He held a clean rag above Dean’s mouth and squeezed water drops onto his sandy tongue. It tasted like heaven. “He really is as good as they say. I can’t believe it...” Bran went on.

His tongue now softened, Dean managed to ask what happened.

“Castiel healed you. He said you’d die by morning but I guess he wasn’t giving up. Good thing, too. He nearly killed himself casting spells over your injury.”

For reasons he couldn’t find words to express, tears filled Dean’s eyes. He’d carried sorrow in his heart for so many years that it felt like sunlight finally touched him, and a shard of his misery melted away.

Someone cared for him again. Someone he wanted to take notice. Someone he should hate but wanted to make peace with instead. The irony was not lost on Dean and, in fact, it made him burst out laughing.


	4. ACT II

A walking stick. A Maker damn fucking walking stick. No more fighting, no more hunting blood mages, no more running. The Shade had poisoned the muscles in his left side, sending spasms of pain up his lower back and down his leg whenever he pushed himself too hard, but mostly, it left him limping.

Dean Winchester was a useless cripple.

He heard one mage giggle behind his back as he hobbled through the corridors one day and Dean turned on him like a wilder beast, smacking his new walking stick across the boy’s back.

He instantly regretted it, but it was too late. The damage was done. No mage dared to walk or stand too close to him after that. And now Dean was stuck in the gallows with them day in, day out. Useless.

His mere presence traumatised them, even when he just wanted to sit and rest his aching side. No one dared to speak above a whisper in case he lost his temper. They rushed from the room as soon as possible, and no one said anything substantial in conversation. But hadn’t he wanted time to help them? To be kinder? With the way every mage responded to him, Meredith would never suspect a thing.

Even Castiel avoided him. He couldn’t explain it but, ever since his recovery, Dean could generally sense Castiel’s location, and every time he tried to find him, he sensed Castiel flee in the opposite direction. It filled him with a new kind of sorrow. Why could he sense Castiel? Dean had an extensive knowledge of magic, but this was new. Bran said that Castiel had worked magic on him all through the night - worked himself close to death - so maybe all that magic had left something behind, but still...he hadn't heard of such a thing happening before.

Dean took to spot checking rooms while the mages ate their breakfast. The state of their living quarters, especially the shared barracks, had to be pristine. The younger ones often forgot certain requirements in their haste to stick to the daily schedule, and so, Dean straightened their bedding, put socks back into draws, and cleaned powder off the looking glasses.

Occasionally he slipped elfroot into the elder mages’ draws and left spare blankets in their wardrobes, hoping Castiel would approve.

He watched over the Tranquil in the gardens and grew particularly attached to one girl who never seemed distracted by his constant prattling, even if she didn’t laugh at his jokes. At least the Tranquil weren’t afraid of him.

At night, Dean ensured that the children’s candles never went out, especially for one elf boy who feared every inch of the dark. It reminded him of Sammy. The Maker only knew how far he used to go to sooth Sammy’s fears and this boy was no different. No other templar cared about replacing candles—they called the darkness character building.

One morning, as he slipped a fresh stick of elfroot into one woman’s draw (she’d been complaining of spasms of pain in various limbs), he sensed Castiel nearby. His tongue dried, heart hammered, and Dean slammed the draw shut just as Castiel slipped into the long room.

He glimpsed Castiel’s cowl through the numerous bed posts and Dean’s palm sweated around his walking stick. He clenched it harder to his side and stomped out into the centre walkway.

“I was starting to think you were a figment of my imagination,” he called out.

As Castiel emerged at the other end of the room, Dean noticed the change in his clothes like a splash of paint on a blank page. He wore a deep blue and green robe beneath his cowl, which he’d reshaped into a cloak. The beige material fluttered open as he paced forward, revealing the golden sunburst on his chest.

“I see someone got promoted,” Dean managed. “Enchanter, now, is it? That must be why you’ve been too busy to come and find me sleeping in a chair somewhere.” His smile fell when Castiel seized the neck of his breastplate and yanked him closer.

“What are you doing?”

“Excuse you?”

“Why are you in here?”

“I... Well... I’m inspecting the barracks.”

Castiel growled deep in his throat. “That’s Cullen’s job. So, I’ll ask you again. What are you doing in here?”

Dean fell back behind the shield of his rank. Old habits die hard. He ripped Castiel’s hand from his breastplate and snarled as he used to when mages challenged him. “Watch your step. I think the question is what are you doing in here? It’s breakfast time, the barracks are closed until mid-morning. Don’t you have your own room by now, _Enchanter_?”

He stopped himself from adding ‘get out’. They couldn’t part ways so soon.

Pressing his lips together and scowling, Castiel turned his back on him. He really should have his own room by now, having been promoted, or at least a shared chamber with another enchanter.

“Why _are_ you here?” Dean asked.

“I know you’ve been sneaking around.”

Dean laughed. “I have no need to sneak around.”

“Perhaps not, but this isn’t the first time you’ve been in here before inspection.”

Dean’s laughter died. “How would you know that?” he asked carefully.

No reply. Had Castiel been spying on him? No, how could he? Dean sensed him running away the minute he drew near. Grabbing Castiel’s shoulder, he spun him around to face him. “I asked you a question, mage.”

Hatred burned in those deep blue eyes. “I have a name.”

Dean sucked in a breath. Had he never used Castiel’s name? But he whispered it to himself so often...

“Are you the idiot replacing candles and leaving spare blankets?” Castiel hissed.

He tried to deny it, but he couldn’t pick the right words.

“Stop. Just stop. Cullen thinks we’re stealing the extras. Now Anna is prohibited from the store room and Thandir is spending time in the dark cells to ‘make up for all the nights he missed building character.’ I don’t know what sick enjoyment you get out of this but—”

“What? No! I wanted to help.”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed, head tilted to the side. “What? ... _Why_?”

“Because...” He wanted Castiel to see him as a better person. “I’ve got a lot to make up for.”

A subtle change softened Castiel’s glare and Dean struggled to breathe. Yes, that’s all he’d wanted; for Castiel to look beyond the armour and his family name. And look he did, studying Dean’s face for a hint of a lie. He felt drawn in by the scrutiny, smelling spindleweed and smoke on Castiel’s robes.

Dean allowed himself to smile.

A door banged nearby and they jumped, no doubt Cullen on his way to begin the inspection. Castiel ran from the room, taking a little piece of Dean’s heart with him.

* * *

He got Thandir released from the cells and asked one of the storeroom Tranquil to ensure that Anna got all she needed for her work. It wasn’t much, but it was the best Dean could do to amend his foolishness.

He continued leaving elfroot in draws, since Castiel hadn’t condemned him for that, until one cold, raining morning, Meredith summoned him to her office. Dean limped inside, doing his best not to rely on his cane.

“Cullen is concerned that you’re covering up for the mages’ mistakes,” she said, skin wrinkling around her shrewd eyes.

Wow, not even a 'Good afternoon, Knight-Lieutenant'. Dean faked an incredulous look. “Pardon?”

“He says he’s seen you leaving the shared quarters before one of his inspections, which have been of a higher standard than usual.”

Dean cursed himself. He thought he’d left just enough mess to make things look convincing. “Me?” he scoffed. “Of all templars to suspect, you’d believe me guilty of such a thing? Did the last year happen, or did my team _not_ lower the mage crime rate in Kirkwall? Why would I break my neck cleaning up after them? They’ll never learn that way.”

Meredith nodded at him, conceding. “That’s what I said. I like you, Dean, we understand one another.”

“Feeling’s mutual, ma’am.”

“Even so. I’ve heard whispers that you’re going soft. Perhaps being trapped in here with that limp has forced you to get too close to the mages. Perhaps one of them cried on your shoulder and you took pity?”

Panic reared inside and Dean fought to ignore the heat in his cheeks. “Nothing of the sort!”

Meredith stepped closer, her red hood casting a shadow over her cold stare. “Good, because I would hate to discharge you. I have no use for foolish cripples. We must remain vigilant at all times, and anyone who cannot handle that will be cast out.”

The warning prickled over every inch of Dean’s skin. He forced a smile. “Of course.”

She returned to her desk and folded her arms. “I have a mission for you—something to get you out of this place. There’s a mage currently under the Viscount’s protection and living in Hightown. I don’t know what that idiot thinks he’s doing, but this mage has had a lot of dealings with the Qunari. She’ll topple Kirkwall right beneath his nose. Her family name is Hawke.”

“Hawke?” repeated Dean. “I know that name...”

“She’s Bethany’s older sister.”

Just what he needed. A mission that might indirectly injure one of Castiel’s friends. Great.

* * *

They set it up perfectly. A little too perfectly, for Dean’s liking. Dressed as a nobleman trying to slum it in Lowtown, he staged an argument between himself, Cullen, and Mettin. They chose the Hanged Man tavern as their stage, the ideal place to spread gossip, and it surprised no one when it ended up in a fight.

Cullen seemed to enjoy punching Dean in the face, and he didn’t hold back either. It went on longer than expected and Dean managed to hiss between a mouthful of blood, “What are you doing?”

They eventually left Dean on the tavern floor in a heaped mess. His old Shade wound screamed at the brutal treatment but their violent show had the desired effect. Two of Hawke’s known companions took notice.

“Not very bright, are you?” said the dwarf.

“Even so, I like his passion,” added the woman, firelight shimmering off her large, gold earrings. Dean perked up and did his best to smile.

“There’s more where that came from,” he wheezed.

She smirked. “Oh, I like him.” The woman, Isabela, pulled him up and helped him into a chair. She sat opposite him and leant forward onto the table, pushing up the swell of her breasts. Dean fought not let his eyes wonder, and yet, even as he marvelled at her devious smile, his thoughts drifted to someone else back at the gallows...

“I knew I’d caught your fancy,” Dean teased.

“Is that so? You talk an awful lot of hot air.”

“Hot is right.”

She laughed; a clear, confident sound. “It’ll take more than that to catch my sails.”

Gaining Isabela and Varric’s friendship was easy, and they spoke freely of Hawke’s impressive feats of skill. They made no secret of her dealings with the Qunari, and in truth, it sounded like Hawke gave the unwanted settlers hell above anything else.

His cover lasted only one night, however. An apostate joined them the next evening and he all but burst into flame at the sight of Dean.

“You!” he cried, then he turned on Isabela. “What are you doing talking to him?”

A group chatting at the nearby table grew quiet.

“Anders, calm down,” Isabela said. “What’s going on?”

“He’s a templar! A murdering bastard, as cold blooded as they come.”

“Ouch,” said Dean. “That’s a little unfair, we’ve only just met.” His smile fell as he sensed magic and saw an ethereal light shine in Anders’ eyes. It vanished as soon as it appeared, and Isabela leapt to her feet.

“Calm down, tiger, or else everyone will know what you are.”

Anders growled and dragged Dean outside. Dean staggered after him, dropping his cane somewhere on the sticky tavern floor. He sensed more hostile magic vibrating beneath Anders’ skin and he reacted without thought—reached into his energy reserves, ready to dispel the magic. Anders... Anders... Where did he know the name Anders...?

Dean clung to Anders’ shoulder in an effort to keep up as he led Dean down to the docks. He pulled him down stairways, past the waterfront, and deep into the alleyways that even the Guard didn’t dare patrol. Isabela and Varric were hot on their heels.

“Anders!” Dean gasped. “From Ferreldan’s Circle!”

Magic thrummed in the air as Anders threw Dean away from him. He stumbled and barely managed to keep his footing. Of course he knew Anders, the same cocky mage he’d been sent to hunt down numerous times when he still worked for Greagoir.

“So you remember me?” Anders snapped. “I’m surprised I’m not some nameless blur amidst all the others you’ve caused suffering.”

“Must be your winning personality,” replied Dean.

His face, still tender from the 'fake' fight the day before, exploded with pain as Anders punched him. Dean fell back, hitting the stone wall of the alleyway, but refused to fall down. Before any spell could fly, Dean called upon the lyrium in his system and silenced Anders’ growing power.

With a mirthless laugh, Anders shrugged off the negative energy. He shattered Dean’s spell and diminished his borrowed powers to a flicker of its usual strength.

Ander’s eyes shone and blue veins marked his skin like raw lyrium in rock. There was nothing Dean could do.

A spirit-like hand reared above Anders, and with one thrust, the magic plunged into Dean’s chest. Anders sucked out the remaining lyrium in Dean’s body, hollowed him out as much as possible, until Dean trembled like he’d been drowned beneath a frozen lake.

“Blondie!” cried Varric. “What are you doing?”

“Stay out of this, dwarf.” _That_ was not Anders’ voice.

“Abomination...” Dean whispered, sliding to the floor at last. He’d heard enough possessed mages speak to know an ethereal voice by now.

“You dare call _me_ an abomination?”

Isabela crept closer. “Justice, what’s so important about this templar? Someone will notice if you kill him.”

“This is Dean Winchester,” the glowing demon said through Anders’ cracked lips. Dean made a mental note to add Anders to his squad’s hit list. It didn’t surprise him in the least that Anders had slipped so far.

“Is that supposed to mean something to us?” said Varric.

The light faded on Anders body and when he next spoke, it was as himself. “Whenever I escaped from the Circle,” he panted, exhausted by his little magic display, “this man would drag me back with broken legs and a split nose, and he’d ensure that I couldn’t heal myself until I was locked up in a solitary confinement cell. He did the same to children, too. And if he ever caught you breaking the rules, he’d give you a beating you’d not soon forget, but always subtle enough to avoid being discharged.”

“Not my finest moments,” Dean muttered.

Anders kicked his leg, sending spasms of pain up his scarred left side. “You would see all mages suffer.”

“Don’t presume to know me, mage.”

“I know you well enough!”

Dean closed his eyes and tried to hear the sea lapping against the docks. He supposed Anders was right, he did know him well. Dean had instilled fear and obedience in his charges, causing more misery than good. But after seeing his brother go further and further downhill, dragging their father with him, he knew mages were dangerous. How did one keep a loaded cannon from going off without strict punishment for misconduct? One broken rule led to more broken rules...

Next time he saw Castiel, things would have to change.

Magic roared to life in Anders again. Dean didn’t need lyrium to sense it.

“You will not harm another mage again.”

Castiel... Dean didn’t deserve his approval anyway.

“Anders, no!” cried Varric. “If you kill a templar who was _planted_ to meet us, they’ll send more raining down upon us.”

“As much as I’d like to see him get his comeuppance, Varric is right,” Isabela agreed.

Dean opened his eyes, waiting for Anders to finish him off regardless of his friends’ reasoning. They stared at each other,  the past crackling in the air between them.

Varric pointed at Anders with Dean’s fallen walking stick. He’d picked it up for him, well that was nice. “Think of all the trouble you’ll cause Hawke!”

Anders' eyes widened, jaw slackened. The glowing light around his fist dimmed. “Hawke...” Ah, Anders always did wear his heart on his sleeve.

“Last I heard, Hawke wasn’t a cat,” said Dean. “You’ve fallen for a woman?”

Anders seized the front of Dean’s doublet and dragged him onto his feet. “Don’t you dare.”

“Touchy subject? Does she not reciprocate?”

“ _Anders_ ,” Varric warned. “Let’s go.”

Thrown to the floor once again, Dean let out a sigh of relief. Varric tossed his walking stick to the ground, within Dean’s reach, and shook his head. At last they left him.

Beaten, bruised, bloodied. Dean grappled onto his feet as tears burned the back of his eyes. Everything hurt. As soon as he got back, Dean would apologise to Castiel for everything; for his older brother being hanged, for threatening him repeatedly, for lusting after him when Dean had no right to. Dean couldn’t pretend his heart felt anything else anymore: Castiel meant more to him that he liked.

Most of all, Castiel deserved his thanks.

* * *

“You mean to tell me you learnt nothing about Hawke?” snapped Meredith.

“Not _nothing_!” cried Dean. “Just, nothing incriminating.”

“Get out of my sight.”

 

 


	5. A Star Falling to Earth

Dean lowered himself into a pew like an old man with creaking bones. He took out his brandy flask, but instead of tasting cherry, he guzzled mouthful after mouthful of lyrium. It fixed the sickening craving in his stomach and filled his mind with sweet singing. The chill in his limbs ebbed away. In a few more days, he’d be fully recovered from Anders invasive purge.

Incense tickled Dean’s nose and he hung his head back, breathing heavily. _Maker, save me._

He drifted off, limbs filled with a pleasant buzz, and woke to find Castiel sitting next to him. “Maker’s breath! Don’t do that, Cas!”

For the first time he saw Castiel look surprised.

“What? You can’t just watch people when they sleep!”

“No it’s... Never mind. Where were you? What happened to your face?”

Dean grunted and straightened up. “Not much good at conversation starters, are you?”

Castiel glared. “Where were you recently? You can’t fight anymore, and you can’t escort mages into the city. Has something happened?”

Being pumped for information shouldn’t have made Dean smile, but one spread across his face all the same. Castiel had noticed his absence, even if it had been a short one.

“Nothing’s happened. Meredith sent me to investigate something. The rest is none of your business.”

Castiel spotted the flask on the seat beside Dean and he sneered in disgust.

“It’s not what you think,” he said, and handed it over. “Lyrium. There’s none left, before you check.”

A tense silence settled between them as Castiel put the flask aside. He studied Dean’s bruised face with unabashed concern, and guilty pleasure coiled down the templar’s chest and abdomen. It grew hotter, spreading into Dean's legs when Castiel touched his fingers to Dean’s swollen cheek.

A cool magic soothed away the ache in Dean’s face. He sighed and let his eyes flutter shut, holding back a wave of regret. He didn’t deserve this.

All too soon, Castiel’s touch disappeared, and Dean looked at him with bleary vision. “I owe you my thanks twice over, I guess.”

“How so?”

“You saved my life. I never thanked you, did I?”

Castiel twisted away, avoiding him. “You owe me nothing.”

“Sure, just my eternal gratitude. _Thank you_ , Cas.” Dean clasped his hands together. “And, sorry.” He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry for the way I’ve treated you—and other mages, of course, but I can’t apologise to everyone, that’d be a long list. That’s not to say—I mean, I just want to say sorry to you. Well, not just you, but mostly you. That’s not...”

_Great, come across more flippant why don’t you?_

“I’ve gone about everything the wrong way.” Dean sighed. “I only knew one way of doing my job. But you were right, I’ve done terrible things. I wanted to fix that but I only seem to make things worse. I’m sorry about your brother, too. What my dad did...”

“Don’t,” Cas breathed.

“Let me speak.” He took a deep breath, a terrible ache clawing at his heart. “I know sorry isn’t enough. It never will be, not for me and my family. That’s why I’m going to hand in my notice. I’ve done enough damage and it’s time I—”

“No!”

He jerked back, shocked by Castiel’s loud exclamation. The mage shrank at the sound of his own voice echoing off the walls.

“You can’t leave,” he went on.

“Why not?”

“That’s...” Castiel hesitated. “That’s a cowards way out.”

“This isn’t about bravery,” said Dean. “There’s no way out of this life for me, not really. If I choose to resign, I’ll be sent to a Chantry to watch over some Grand Cleric, they’ll feed me lyrium to maintain my leash, and then my family’s heritage will die out and go forgotten. I can’t change what I’ve done and I can’t do what’s required anymore. You shouldn’t be sat here right now, Cas, but here we are. One of us will fall harder than the other when someone notices that I’m not reprimanding you for misconduct, and I can’t guarantee it will be me.”

Castiel leant closer. “Why would you want to guarantee my safety before yours?" he whispered. Dean pressed his lips tightly together. Castiel's gaze only grew more intense. "Why don’t you send me to my chamber?” Again: half-challenge, half-serious. Half something else all together.

Heat throbbed harder between Dean’s legs. His gaze flickered to Castiel’s lips. If they really were caught... But his senses were consumed by the other man’s presence, his hard stare, the way he wet his lips.

 _Andraste_ , what did this mage want?

Dean let one trembling hand glide over the back of the pew and up to Castiel’s shoulder...to his neck...the back of his head. His heart beat so loud he felt sure Castiel must hear it too. His hair felt soft...

“I don’t know,” Dean breathed.

“Well, don’t look to me for answers.”

Dean smirked. “You should pull away. I won’t stop you.” He stroked his thumb across Castiel’s jaw. “Why won't you stay away from me?”

Silence. Castiel's unblinking stare.

Dean pulled Cas towards him and felt no resistance. Castiel leant into his kiss like a star falling to earth, and Dean’s senses exploded upon impact. He’d kissed mages before but none had sent delicious tremors beneath his skin, or made his heart glow as if they filled every corner of his soul.

Castiel, in turn, gripped Dean’s face, his searching hands dissatisfied with Dean’s armour; and his kisses deepened, melding around Dean’s lower lip.

As Dean attempted to twist more towards him, a sharp pain shot up his left side. He whimpered and they broke apart, their heavy breath echoing off the Chantry stonework.

A fulfilled laugh burst out of Dean’s chest. “If I sent you to your chamber,” he said, “I don’t think I’d be able to leave you there alone.”

* * *

 

As he limped toward Castiel one evening, making his way to the rear courtyard, Dean caught Castiel’s wrist as he made to pass by.

“What are you...?”

Dean put a finger to his lips. He checked up and down the corridor. No one was around. Letting an open smile come over him, Dean leaned over and placed a short, sweet kiss on Castiel’s lips.

The mage jerked back, rightly terrified of being spotted. “Don’t do that,” he hissed, brushing past.

But Dean caught him smiling and joy bloomed inside.

* * *

 

The next night Dean awoke in the rear courtyard, shaken from his dreams by Castiel. Oh, what a pensive scowl. If there were a prize for the grumpiest mage in Kirkwall, it already had Castiel’s name on it.

“Ah, you finally couldn’t resist,” said Dean, groggy with sleep. “Watching me was too much, was it?”

Too wound up to speak, Castiel snatched Dean’s cane from where it lay against the bench and threw it into the herbs.

“You better go and fetch that,” Dean said, not joking.

Castiel pointed an accusing finger. “What do you want from me?”

No longer intimidated by the man’s fierce gaze, Dean sat back against the wall and folded his hands in his lap. “Nothing.”

“Everybody wants something and templars love to have something to hold over us.”

“Maybe I’d like to hold you?”

Winding him up was just too easy. Castiel twisted in circles and paced the courtyard, his hands twitching; perhaps with the desire to swing a punch.

“No,” Cas said, “love is a game, and not one played by templars. You take and trample what we cannot bear to lose and then use it against us.”

Again, Dean smiled, unruffled. “I’m touched. You cannot bear to lose me?”

“No! I mean, that’s not what I’m saying and you know it.”

“That’s a shame. I couldn’t bear to lose you.” That wasn’t strictly true, Dean made no claim of undying love for anyone, but he grinned at the way it made Castiel fluster.

“You’re impossible,” Castiel snapped, throwing up his arms. “Choke on your brandy.” He started storming off, but then whipped around to the herb bushes.

“It’s lyrium, actually,” said Dean, as if in passing. “I heard mages prefer it on their lover’s lips.”

Castiel picked up the walking stick and threw it at Dean’s head. It whacked him in the nose and he doubled over, cursing. Maker, this mage had some audacity. Before he managed to runaway, Dean called out his name.

Castiel paused beneath the frieze archway.

“I’m sorry for the kiss,” Dean said gently. “Yesterday, in the hall. I didn’t mean to upset you. That is...” _Just say it, Dean._ “Upsetting you is always the last thing on my mind.”

Nothing moved but the breeze in the garden. Then without a word, Castiel left, his cloak billowing in his haste to escape. Dean slumped back and sighed.

* * *

 

Castiel found him checking over the barracks again. Dean sensed him coming and knew, by the way his eyes sought him out, that Castiel had been looking for him. Dean waited by the chest of draws he’d just planted with elfroot and felt his breath hitch when Castiel strode right over and hugged him.

Dean leant heavily on his cane, surprised by the ferocity of Castiel’s grip.

“I don’t know what to do,” Castiel whispered.

“About what?”

“You.”

Dean smiled sadly and brushed his cheek against Castiel’s. He didn’t know either. He just knew that being near Castiel made his crippled existence less meaningless.

“I’m sorry,” was all he could say.

“Stop saying that,” Cas whispered, and he kissed him, slow and soft. It lasted for an eternity and yet barely a moment. They both trembled with fear and lust as their touches grew bolder and hotter, when a door slammed nearby, and Castiel ran away again.

* * *

 

In a stairwell, as the setting sun glimmered through one of the windows, Dean came face to face with Castiel as he headed down to the library.

“Castiel?”

Nothing for a moment.

“Yes?” Cas replied.

“I would ask you to trust me.”

A ridiculous request by any means, yes, but he had to try. Castiel’s eyes narrowed.

“Why?”

“Because...you can.”

Ducking his chin, Castiel squeezed past. “We’ll see.”

* * *

 

They slipped into a long forgotten guard room at mid-afternoon. As soon as the door shut Dean dropped his cane, seized Castiel’s cloak and drew him to his lips. The mage watched him beneath half-lidded eyes, his every breath laden with desire, and it further strained the ache between Dean’s legs. It seemed like he’d wanted this for years, and in fact, maybe he had, but he’d been too arrogant to acknowledge it.

He wanted to rip off his armour and shed Castiel of his robes, trace his hands over the mysterious skin beneath, and press their bodies together in a firm embrace. But the possibility that they might be caught always existed.

“If only I knew magic that could dress and undress you in seconds,” Castiel gushed, trailing hungry kisses along Dean’s jaw.

Dean moaned in response. “These shoulder guards can come off at least.” He no longer wore the hulking steel over layer, it seemed pointless since he was no longer required to fight, and the extra weight did nothing for his back. Castiel’s hands fumbled with the reinforced leather on his shoulders, and Dean chuckled. “Here...”

He tugged off his gauntlets and handed them over, then deftly unbuckled his shoulder guards and dropped them to the floor. As soon as Castiel set aside Dean’s gauntlets, he was on him again, hands squeezing his biceps. If only he could feel that firm touch on bare skin...

Dean suppressed a grunt of pain as Castiel pushed him against the wall. The muscles in his left side stiffened in surprise, but Castiel was stronger than he looked and he kept Dean from stumbling. This was new. Dean tried to blame his gimp side for letting someone else push him around, but as Castiel pressed into him, forearm braced against Dean’s chest, he fully realised how little he knew about the man pinning him to the wall.

A longing tug hit him again. Maker, he liked this weakness—vigilance be damned. He gripped Castiel’s waist and pulled their hips together. A short moan escaped Castiel’s mouth and Dean shivered in delight. Desire spoke for them, Castiel arching his hardened length into him, and Dean felt it even through their robes.

People always joked about the dress-like appearance of a templar’s lower robes, but Dean had never been more thankful for it. His hands slid around to Castiel’s arse and he ground against him in return. Dean gasped, his back complaining, but the friction between them throbbed hot and firm.

“Careful,” whispered Cas, smirking. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Rather do that yourself, would you?” Dean growled.

Castiel shoved Dean with one quick, hard, push; winding him slightly. “You _are_ a templar.”

“Not when I’m with you.”

Dean closed his eyes to fully melt into Castiel’s kiss, spreading his knees to give the mage better access. They found rhythm almost instantly, flushed with heat and pleasure and throbbing friction.

“Does that mean you’d let me go?” Cas gasped over his lips.

“Never.” Dean dropped his head back against the wall, clenching Castiel’s robes. He lifted them higher and higher, inch by inch. He craved more.

Castiel responded in kind by tugged on Dean’s red and blue skirts. His heart shuddered, desperate to slide against him with nothing in between.

“You’d never give me my freedom?” Castiel panted into his neck. “Let me escape this place?”

Dean blinked at the sunlight coming in through the cracked ceiling as cold fear broke the spell hanging over him. He dug his fingers into Castiel’s hips until the man winced. “Is that what this is about?” he asked. The heat in his chest spiralled into an empty blackness. “You want to trick me into letting you run off and become an apostate?”

Had Dean been that stupid? It stung to think that was all Castiel wanted from him; to think that Dean would throw aside every warning drilled into him just to fuck one mage. No, no, Castiel meant more than that...

“And you would pretend we are equals?” Castiel growled. “I can’t even look your way without being threatened I’ll be made Tranquil. You _live_ here and yet you don’t see what Meredith is doing to us, do you?”

“You’re right, Meredith is harsh, but all I see are whiny mages who don’t know their own strength. You are always armed and always within reach of cataclysmic power.”

Dean shuddered as Castiel silenced him with a gruff kiss. “Oh, we know our strength. But what’s stopping you from drawing your sword and killing everyone right now?”

“ _I_ can put my sword down.”

“And we can choose not to unsheathe ours.” Castiel ground against him and Dean shuddered, hating the pleasure of it. “ _Magic should serve man and never rule over him_ ; but it is a precaution or slavery? We are not to be feared—you’re head is so full of—”

“Enough!” Dean shoved him away. He felt sick, used, foolish. “Enough.” _Enough of us, before we go too far._

He picked up his gauntlets, shoulder guards, and cane.

“Dean...”

Before leaving, he paused and looked back. “You’ve never really lived outside of the Circle. You don’t know what I’ve seen, and Maker save us from mages with good intentions.”

He left the room. Loss and shame ripped a hole through his chest.


	6. Not Even For You

_I have to leave. I have to leave. I have to leave._

Whenever he sensed Castiel nearby, Dean forced himself to divert his path in the opposite direction, and for the next few nights he lay awake, burning with love and regret. Tonight was no different. He stared at the pale moonlight illuminating his books on magic, demons, apothecary, the Fade, blood magic... He felt paralised with indecision every day and the painful twist in his heart. So many people hated him, who was he supposed to appease? What kind of person was he? He was awful. He deserved nothing. He had to live by his father's creed, he never should have let Castiel get under his skin. He had to convince Meredith he was still fierce, he had to convince himself that nothing was more important than duty. He'd been such a simpering idiot.

_Maybe you’ll remove the pole wedged up your arse._

_Much blood is on your family’s hands._

_I have no use for foolish cripples._

_You dare call me an abomination?_

_Stop saying that._

_You’d never give me my freedom?_

A quiet knock sounded on Dean’s bedroom door and he snapped out of  his sleepy stupor. Someone at this hour? Had Cullen come to throw him out at last? Heaving off the mattress, Dean dragged himself to the door, shivering at the night air over his bare chest.

Wait...he knew this feeling...

The second he opened it, Castiel pushed inside on a gust of spindleweed and wood smoke. Fully awake now, Dean shut the door, stomach plummeting.

“Cas?”

“I risked everything to be here, so don’t throw me out.”

Dean doubted he could even if he wanted to. He waited, their eyes locked across the room.

“Forgive me,” Castiel whispered.

“What?”

“I’ve hated you since the moment I met you.”

Cas might as well have stabbed him. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“No, _no_.” Castiel looked away, clenching his fists. “You have to understand, you’re part of a system that makes my life miserable. I’d do anything to escape this place. I want my freedom.”

“And you want me to give it to you.” Dean felt tears in his eyes and he rubbed a hand down his face, tired of knowing a pain that hurt more than his wounds.

“No. I... Ever since I saved your life...I just feel different. Like we’re connected. And I realised that you only ever thought you were doing the right thing.” Castiel huffed. “I can’t stop thinking about you. I didn’t think I’d ever care for a templar, especially you, but there it is. I’m not asking you to risk yourself for me by letting me escape, I _am_ a mage...”

Dean strode across the room, urging his left side to push him forward, and grabbed Castiel’s shoulders. “It’s not because you’re a mage,” he said, “it’s because I can’t have that on my conscience. I can’t see the same thing happen to anyone else.”

Castiel tilted his head in that unique manner of his. “What do you mean?”

Dean chewed his lips, unable to meet his gaze.

“What happened to you, Dean?”

“My brother was an apostate,” he whispered. “We kept it secret, me and my dad. We trained Sammy to control his magic and he helped us hunt down maleficarum using...using their own forbidden arts against them.” He felt Castiel tense and he tightened his grip, afraid Cas would pull away. “I never liked it, but Sammy was insistent that he could control blood magic. And he did for years. Our success rate as a family wasn’t purely because we’re good at what we do. We had a malificar working right under their very noses.” Dean offered a weak smile. “Dad just...couldn’t let him go.”

Castiel eased out of his hold, stone faced, and Dean went and sat on the edge of his bed.

“Five years ago we tracked one malificar to the Brecilian Forest, but he was powerful—stronger than any blood mage we’d ever seen. He wanted my brother to join him and he promised many things I know Sammy wanted. His own life on a quiet little farm, for starters...” Dean shook his head. “In the end, the malificar had me and Sammy trapped in the ruins, and he swore to let us live if my father stepped down. Of course, Dad agreed to it. The malificar killed him on the spot.

“Dad always said to me, ‘Son, one day we may have to kill your brother.’ I always thought, ‘How could he not trust his own son?’ But he was right.” Taking a deep breath, it took Dean a moment before he could speak aloud his darkest secret. “My brother wanted revenge, we both did, and he convinced me to let him—not only _use_ blood magic—but to _drink_ blood and make a deal with a demon.”

He heard Castiel’s soft gasp. “How could...”

“Don’t. You won’t say anything that I haven’t already told myself.” Dean hung his head in his hands. “Sammy couldn’t handle it. I had to kill my own brother. I know you think you’d be better off if every templar vanished off the face of Thedas but—”

“Not every templar.”

Dean smiled, the words sinking into him.

“But not all mages are the same,” Castiel rushed on. “This is no life. I can’t visit the city anymore, I can’t decide my own curfew, I can’t see my family, I can’t even talk to you like this without sneaking around.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

Dean looked up at him, unflinching, and Castiel padded closer.

“I’m not using you to help me escape,” Cas said. “I just want you to understand.”

“I do. Believe me.”

Castiel slowly lowered onto the mattress beside Dean, never once looking away.

“I’m sorry about your brother,” Castiel murmured.

Grunting, done with that topic, Dean leant over and kissed him. He poured every last meaningful breath he had into it and crumbled inside when Castiel reciprocated. As his hands smoothed over Dean’s chest for the first time, he felt his loneliness and anger intensify. Long held in tears dampened his lashes and gruff sobs stuck in his throat.

Each kiss only worsened their situation. Dean had to stop. “You should go back,” he garbled. “Your roommate must be suspicious of you.”

“I share with Anna,” Castiel replied. “She knows.”

Familiar fear clenched in his gut. “Knows?”

“It’s okay.” His voice was so soothing. “It’s okay...”

Come what hellfire, Dean nodded and eased Castiel out of his cloak. “Then I take it back,” Dean whispered. “You should definitely stay.”

Smiling, Castiel brushed his thumb beneath Dean’s eye, wiping away the moisture, and Dean pulled him back into his arms. He should ask Cas what he had meant by ‘we’re connected’. Why did he often sense Castiel’s location? But Dean feared he already knew the answer involved magic, perhaps some unencountered side-effect of healing a person on the brink of death. If that were true, it could mean he was susceptible to Castiel in other ways, and Dean didn’t want to acknowledge that. If magic did bind them, he would have to fix it...by ordering Castiel be made Tranquil.

He’d rather not know.

As Castiel’s soft lips found his, Dean tried twisting further into his embrace, only to hiss at the resulting pain in his side.

“Careful,” whispered Castiel, no hit of mockery this time. “Lie back.”

Dean half obeyed, sliding fully onto the mattress but unable to let himself sink into the sheets. In past intimate encounters Dean had been capable of moving as he pleased—giving and taking at his command and earning the sound of his name cried out on his lover’s lips. Now he felt useless, a familiar feeling these days, and uncomfortable with being limited to lying down on his back.

But as Castiel crawled over him, forcing Dean to settle into the pillow, a spark of heat ignited in his abdomen, especially when firm hands smoothed over his stomach and up his chest. Castiel bent closer and kissed Dean in earnest; slow, deep, and tender. _Yes..._ Dean adored the sound of Castiel’s breath as if flushed over his lips.

Reaching up, Dean ran his hands down Castiel’s neck...all the way down to his hips...and began inching up his robes. Castiel responded by rising onto his hands, giving Dean space to slide the fabric up to his chest. He stared down at Dean, who slowly slipped his hands under the hem of Castiel’s robes and found his stomach, then chest... His skin felt so beautifully soft compared to Dean’s battle weary hands.

Castiel sat up and finished pulling off his robes, tossing them to the floor. Moonlight shone over his naked torso and Dean longed to press against him. Running his hands up Castiel’s thighs, Dean expected him to sink back onto him, but the mage bit his lip instead and traced over the cords holding up Dean’s trousers. At the touch of Castiel’s fingers grazing over his hardening cock, Dean’s breath deepened and his arousal grew thicker.

He watched Castiel untie him and then tug off his trousers, depositing them on top of his robes. They lost their smalls next and, unable to stand it, Dean grabbed Castiel’s arm. “Kiss me,” he begged.

“Where?” Cas breathed.

He’d meant his lips, but if Castiel insisted... Except Dean couldn’t make himself speak. The thought of Castiel’s hot, pulsing breath...

Castiel kissed Dean’s jaw. “Here?” he asked. Then moved to his neck. “Here?” He trailed a path down Dean’s shoulder, chest, and stomach before stopping above Dean’s throbbing length.

“Cas...”

“Hmm?”

With one stroke, Castiel licked his hot tongue from base to tip and Dean clenched the bed sheets to keep from moaning. He wanted to flip Castiel onto his back, press into him, join together, and make him _know_ that Dean would give anything to grant him freedom and happiness were it possible. He made do with massaging his fingers into Castiel’s hair.

The man’s lips parted over the rounded head of Dean’s cock and he all but lost it, molten heat pooling down to his toes. He resisted the urge to buck against Castiel’s mouth. Castiel’s wet tongue sucked and rippled as he moved up and down, increasing the glorious pressure inside his mouth, and Dean almost laughed at how hard it was breathe.

If this kept up, he’d cum in minutes.

“Cas...” he whispered. Dean gave his lover’s hair a gentle tug and watched as Castiel slowly raised his head one last time; lips gliding over Dean’s tip.

“Yes?”

“Let me...” He tapped Castiel’s arm and the man understood. He crawled back up and Dean guided him to the space beside him. Moving carefully, they tried to exchange positions, Castiel’s hand firm and supportive on Dean’s unreliable left side.

They were all elbows and knees, both two big for the single bed, and Dean started giggling. He clenched his teeth, trying to stay quiet, and the awkward, half-changed position only hurt him, but he couldn’t stop.

“Sssh!” Castiel said, but it trailed off into a snicker as well. “Maker, what _are_ we doing?”

“Don’t ask the Maker, he’d probably smite us.”

“Romantic.”

Controlling himself and gritting his teeth, Dean pushed himself until he was lying with his head between Castiel’s thighs. It wasn’t much more comfortable, his legs half hung off the bed and he had to wrap his arms around Castiel’s thighs to anchor himself, but Dean forgot his laughter as heat throbbed in his groin again. He pressed it into the mattress, imaging he was pressing it against something else...

Castiel peered down at him, smiling smugly. “We’ll never get you back up here no—” His words cut off with a sharp gasp as Dean flicked his tongue over the tip of Castiel’s erection. Dean swirled around the head, tasting his soft skin, and then plunged his mouth down Castiel’s full, curving length.

As desired, Castiel moaned at the unexpected rush of heat, “Andraste’s...” and Dean took him deep into his throat over and over, showing no mercy. He fluttered with excitement every time Castiel whimpered.

“Dean... Dean stop,” he said eventually. “ _Dean._ ”

Holding back a grin, Dean pulled up as slowly as possible and, as soon as he let go, Castiel sat up and desperately drew Dean into his arms. His kiss was feral, clumsy, and Dean winced as he lay down on top of Castiel. The pleasure of his cock sliding over Castiel’s, however, drowned out everything else.

Dean relished the feeling of his chest against Castiel’s, and the way Castiel traced the muscles in his arms—like branding his skin with a mark only Castiel could leave behind.

Dean realised: _this is what it means to ‘make love’._

“I can’t move like this,” Dean panted.

“Sorry, I forgot.”

For someone so attentive, that made Dean laugh. They flipped again.

Their heated breath filled Dean’s ears, kissing until his lips went numb, and the blissful friction between them made him swollen with pleasure. Castiel sucked on his own fingers and then slipped them between Dean’s arse.

He lay at the mercy of this mage who could kill him with the flick of his wrist; who could burn down the templar barracks as if no more lighting a candle. Having consumed lyrium for more than a decade Dean was immune to spells that affected the mind, but he would have willingly drowned in Castiel’s magic at that moment.

“I have a balm for when my side badly aches,” Dean whispered. “It’s in the draw.”

Castiel smirked. “A heating balm?”

Dean nodded, and Castiel hummed in approval. The mage fetched it from the desk draw and covered his fingers in the buttery remedy. When he touched it between Dean’s legs, it sent tingles of warmth deep within. Dean resisted begging this time, sucking in air as the heat trembled up his spine.

At last, Castiel rubbed the balm over his own reddened shaft and pressed against Dean’s entrance. They stared at each other with baited breath.

_Yes..._

A drunken haze blotted out the room as Castiel eased into him. Dean squeezed his eyes shut, overcome with the feeling of being filled by someone he’d long deemed untouchable. Blood pulsed away from his head and he wanted to moan loud enough to wake the heavens.

Castiel started slow, sliding in and out of him until they fit together just right, and Dean couldn’t stand it any longer. He gripped the edge of the mattress and growled, “Come on.”

He needed no other encouragement. Castiel seized Dean’s hips and pounded into him, making the bed creak. A deep, lustful moan escaped Dean’s mouth and it took all of his self control to reign it back in. Their heavy panting filled the room, a sound laden with secrets that Dean prayed no one would overhear.

This was no stolen kiss in the dark.

This was everything Dean had never dreamed of finding.

Someone who made him dismiss the world outside.

Someone he’d lie for, fight for.

Someone who he was willing to lose everything over.

Castiel came first, a sweet cry shuddering past his lips and down to his cock; and when they both lay satisfied—Castiel’s head on Dean’s shoulder—they both stayed silent, knowing it could never last.

* * *

 

“The Qunari are attacking the city! Enchanters! Battle mages! Get to the front courtyard, _now_!”

Castiel’s knees trembled and shudders kept racing down his spine. He obeyed without question as templars ordered him, among others, to fetch his staff and prepare for battle. This was his chance. In the chaos of Kirkwall going up in flames, Castiel could finally make his escape.

He felt a pang of loss for Dean, but there was no question of staying. Not even for him. And yet, plotting to leave him behind, forever, sickened Castiel to the core. He never should have saved his life.

It wasn’t that he wished Dean dead, not for a second, but if he’d understood the full implications of the deal that saved Dean’s life, Castiel suspected that leaving would have been easier. Never trust a demon _or_ a spirit.

The worst part of it all was the guilt. It gnawed away at him every time Dean smiled with those trusting eyes. If Dean knew what was keeping him alive...

Castiel tensed, sensing Dean hobble into the front courtyard.

“We must get to Hightown and protect the Viscount!” commanded First Enchanted Orsino.

Always vying for authority over him, Knight-Commander Meredith planted herself in front of Orsino, blocking the slight elf from view.

“Templars, you will follow my lead,” she cried, “but be warned, mages. You may be with Orsino tonight but we will always have our eye on you. Don’t get any ideas. You won’t get far.”

A strong sense of worry poured into him—Dean’s feelings. Castiel cringed.

Before he followed everyone out of the courtyard, Castiel glanced back and spotted him at the bottom of the steps, left behind to guard the gallows. Neither of them smiled or shared any parting gesture, too afraid they’d give themselves away.

_I’m sorry. Not even for you._


	7. For Truth and Honour

Massacre. The Qunari spared no one who dared to enter the streets or stand and fight. The mages fell apart as soon as they reached Lowtown, and there was little Orsino or the templars could do to stop it.

Castiel’s heart thundered with fear and adrenaline. He watched good mages, good friends, stab their own hands to render the forbidden arts. Blood magic ripened the air but he didn’t stop to watch. Nearby templars sensed the dangerous power being wrought and abandoned their push against the Qunari, drawn by duty to slay the new malificarum.

Castiel doubted his friends came out the victors.

The air thrummed with power and carnage, fire burning at every turn. With so many demons drawn to the bloodshed, Castiel heard their tempting offers beyond the weakened Veil. They offered knowledge. Strength. Justice.

Not for the first time, Castiel wondered why the Maker would allow so much suffering.

Knowing his thoughts, the whispers offered Castiel god-like power; magic strong enough to rid the world of its woes. Yes, he could make a change...

 _No!_ If not for himself, Castiel couldn’t betray the last honest bond he had with Dean. Selling his soul for blood magic would damage Dean more so than the truth of his existence.

Their connection had long since faded and Castiel felt an emptiness where there was usually Dean’s presence. He pushed onward, not yet deserting for Anna’s sake. She kept searching for him almost every few seconds, as if afraid the ground would swallow him up. Her fiery red hair looked as wild as the panic in her eyes.

They reached Hightown and Castiel split the air with lightning; forking it down upon the Qunari who had stationed themselves outside the keep. Fire, ice, and rock deafened the streets. They outnumbered the Qunari three to one...but it wasn’t enough.

First they were thirty mages strong. Then twenty. Then five, and Orsino cried out as he, too, fell. When Anna let out a ragged, choked scream—clutching at the spear embedded in her chest—Castiel let rip a furious tempest of electricity, but there was nothing left to do except run.

Castiel prayed for Dean’s forgiveness. He was never coming back.

* * *

 

Dean spotted Ruvena sprinting up the steps to the gallows. Smoke blackened the stars behind her and firelight glowed off the city rooftops below. Where were the others? Dean hobbled to greet her and Ruvena cowered on the top step, her eyes glassy with tears.

“Knight-Lieutenant!” she cried. Her blond hair was stuck to her soot-stained, sweaty face. “It’s madness out there. The Qunari—they’re killing everyone. I barely made it back alive. Huge and Pexley... I lost them.”

“Calm down,” said Dean, despite not feeling the least bit calm either. “What’s happening out there?”

Ruvena took a deep breath, her voice quavering. “The mages are going berserk, ser. We’re fighting two fronts. The city Guard are decimated, the Qunari have taken over the keep, and the mages...” She shuddered, tears grazing over her cheeks. “It’s horrible. I didn’t think I’d ever... I thought I could...”

Dean clenched his cane to try and stop the shakes taking over his whole body. “And what of Orsino and Meredith? What happened to them?” _What of Cas?_

“I’m not sure about Meredith, she carved her path via the eastern district. I made it to the keep but...” Ruvena hung her head. “They were all dead. I couldn’t see Orsino. There were so many bodies lying over the ground. Just this morning I was joking with Lyna that she couldn’t shoot a fire ball for shit. Now she’s gone.”

A hard lump filled Dean’s throat. Was that why he couldn’t sense Castiel anymore? He’d hoped it was just the distance, but what if it was because...

He cleared his throat, tried to speak, cleared his throat again. “You did what you could,” he said. Dean clenched the hilt of his sword, staring past her to the burning streets across the water.

“Ser, don’t do it,” Ruvena said. Dean blinked hard, looking back at her. “I mean no disrespect, but you won’t make it. The Qunari are twice as strong as humans and, well...”

 _I’m not what I used to be._ Dean ground his jaw, lip quivering. Maybe Castiel was fine. Maybe he took the chance to run away. Yes, he’d prefer that; anything other than his moody, self-righteous, weary mage lying in the street in a pool of his own blood.

The lump in his throat thickened and Dean had to leave Ruvena to cry by herself.

The moon passed over the sky and after an eternity of silent praying, Dean heard footsteps running up the stairs again.

“Pexley!” cried Ruvena. She ran across the courtyard and hugged him, their armour clanking together. “I never thought I’d be happy to see your ugly face.”

“You always were a charmer,” Pexley replied, his ginger moustache twitching.

“Report to me, soldier,” said Dean.

Pexley pushed Ruvena aside and saluted, fist over his chest. “Ser! The Arishock is dead! A mage killed him all by herself—that one called Hawke. She led the assault with Orsino and Meredith, and then entered a duel for the city’s freedom.”

Orsino lived! “And the mages?” asked Dean. “What of them?”

Pexley’s grin drooped. “Many died, ser. We think at least a third have fled to the sewers as maleficarum, a third we had to kill ourselves, and the rest...slain by the Qunari. What few live are resting at the keep before they return. Some may be attempting to flee the city unnoticed.”

“Then we must act immediately.” Hope wormed its way past Dean’s better, pessimistic nature. “I know you’re tired but we can’t let the mages slip through our fingers. Some might be hiding from the carnage. We need to find those who didn’t resort to blood magic, at least. Go tell the others by the inner gate and then set out at once. We must remain vigilant.” He added Meredith’s mantra for good measure, and it seemed to do the trick.

Although weary, Pexley perked up, his expression serious, and ran off to the gates with Ruvena.

* * *

 

Cursing and sounds of struggle woke Dean up at midday. He straightened in his chair outside the dungeon guard room. He hadn’t slept all night. Dean thought he had no energy left to spare, but when he saw two templars wrangling Castiel down the corridor, he sprang to life and fought not to run and embrace him.

“Castiel,” he said nonchalantly, “nice of you to join us.”

Castiel shot him a vile, hate-filled glare and it wiped the smile right off Dean’s face. He followed close behind as Mettin and Bran led Castiel deep into the maze of cells. The air grew cold and damp, and Dean unhooked a torch from the wall in passing.

Bran opened a cell door, the metal screeching on its hinges, and Dean winced as Mettin threw Castiel against the back wall and spat at him.

“You are pain in my arse, mage. I’ll see you Tranquil before the day’s up,” he cried, then stormed from the cell. Dean reluctantly pulled out the keys and locked it.

Bran shook his head at Castiel as if disappointed. “It didn’t have to be this way,” the templar said. Exhaustion made Bran’s eyes look sunken and he gave Dean a weary smile (more like a grimace). He looked down at Dean’s walking stick. “Damn shame. We could use your help right now. The squad isn’t what it used to be without your leadership.”

Dean just nodded, offering an apologetic smile, and Bran strode after Mettin.

“What happened?” Dean asked softly, once they were gone. He gripped the bars of Castiel’s cell. All he could really think about was the warm space in his heart that no longer felt empty. Their ethereal link thrummed and Dean could’ve sworn it made him years younger.

Except he’d never received such a glare before, not from Cas. It chilled him, even scared him when Castiel did not reply.

“Stop it!” Dean sounded petulant to his own ears. He shook the bars, achieving nothing, and took a deep breath. “Don’t worry, I won’t let them make you Tranquil.”

Still no reply.

Dean hung his head, examining the blood stains on Castiel’s beige cloak. Then the oddness of Bran and Mettin’s appearance occurred to him. He clung tighter to the bars, dread oozing into his stomach. Dean met Castiel’s hostile gaze again, almost too afraid to ask, and wet his lower lip.

“My squad...hunted you down...” he said gruffly. “Cas... Tell me you didn’t.”

Castiel finally looked away, and then raised his hand to show the new scar on his palm. _No..._ Dean shut his eyes, cold fury trembling over him, or was it despair? Disappointment? He’d trusted that Castiel was better than this.

“How could you?” he whispered.

Castiel flinched but the wild look in his eye didn’t diminish. “I did what I had to.”

“Blood magic? No! This is not—that’s never the answer!”

Castiel charged at the cell door and Dean dropped his hands from the bars. “Do you know what Mettin says to blood mages?” Castiel spat. “‘Dean Winchester sends his regards.’ I watched him slay a young girl who couldn’t have been more than twenty—terrified, resorted to using blood magic because she didn’t know what else to do.

“I let myself forget who you are. You’re not even out there anymore, but apparently your methods carry on. I can’t stand it... I can’t stand that your name is used as a symbol of justice when all it carves is death. Just touching you... I not only betrayed myself but every other mage who died at your hand.”

If anyone else had said this, Dean could have brushed it aside. Pretended it didn’t matter; _that wasn’t him anymore_. He thought of sneaking kisses in the stairwell, seeing Castiel gaze at him with a tender, secretive smile. Had Dean imagined all of it? He backed away, cut deep. How stupid to have believed that he could be forgiven, or make amends for his sins.

“I never pretended,” Dean managed, tearful. Maker, this man would destroy him. Hadn’t he always known that? “I told you, I know what I am. I’ve tried so hard to... Don’t you say that to me. Not you.”

Castiel cringed and averted his eyes, chest heaving.

Dean wanted to punch him for the way he shook his head, like talking to Dean was a waste of time.

“How can you stand there and judge me when you _sold your soul?_ ” Dean cried, barely keeping his voice down.

“I never. I used blood magic but I never made a deal.”

“And how are we supposed to know that? Corruption varies from person to person! You’re a strong mage, you could—”

“That’s still all I am to you!” Castiel lunged at the bars. “You’ll never fully trust me, will you? That’s why you sent your own team to hunt me down. You don’t trust me to live outside these walls.”

“I didn’t send them! Believe it or not, you’re not the only mage in this city. I never sent anyone to specifically find you.” Dean shook hard now, trying to dampen the anger from his voice. “But I am glad you’re here. You’re _safe_ here.”

“THEY’RE GOING TO MAKE ME TRANQUIL.”

Electricity lashed inside Castiel’s cell, confined within the metal bars that counteracted his magic. Dean lost it, so beyond trust or dread.

“Maybe that’s something I should have ordered a long time ago! Why are we connected?” A look passed over Castiel that Dean had not seen on him before. Almost childlike weakness. “You once said we’re connected. How? Why do I know where you are inside the gallows? Why do... Why does it feel different when you touch me?”

Stepping back into the shadows, the hatred in Castiel’s eyes melted away. “So you feel it too...” He didn’t elaborate.

“What? By Andraste, if you don’t tell me...”

“We share a profound bond,” Castiel said, voice gravelly and calmer, “because it was the only way to save your life.”

“How?”

No reply.

“ _Castiel._ ”

Castiel closed his eyes for a moment. “You’re right, I have made a deal, but not with a demon.”

_Oh Maker..._

“Just listen to me first!”

Dean didn’t know what he’d expected, but not that. He turned his back on Castiel, hearing the same pleading tone Sammy had used on him years ago.

“Dean, it wasn’t a demon! There are benevolent spirits in the Fade, too, but no one is ever allowed to summon more than a wisp. It’s always dismissed. You’re proof—”

“I don’t want to hear it!” Dean stamped his walking stick, afraid he might vomit. “I’m...an abomination?”

“No, no! Isn’t an abomination when the host’s body is completely overtaken? When they no longer have their humanity? There can be a difference. The spirit lives in both of us, it’s using my spirit to sustain you. If I die, so do you. You’re not an abomination, you’re still in control of yourself.”

“Am I?” Dean turned back. He wanted to scrub his body clean, wash out the corruption poisoning his better judgement. “I liked you well enough before my injury, but only afterwards do I think I’m in love with you?”

There, that tender smile. Dean thought he’d never see it again.

“Dean...”

“Don’t _Dean_ me! Screw you, Cas. How could you...” A sob burst out of him and, attempting to hide it, Dean smashed his cane against the bars. It felt good. He’d not swung a sword in almost a year. Dean whacked the cell again and again, exhausting himself after only a few swings.

“Dean.”

He looked up and met Castiel’s simpering gaze.

“I never pretended, either.”

Dean sighed, aching.

“Please, Dean. If I could control you, do you think I’d have worried about hiding this from you? I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know.”

They stayed silent a moment, listening to each other’s choked breathing and the echoes of other templars returning to the dungeons.

“Don’t keep me here,” Castiel breathed. “Please, let me go.”

Dean understood the implication. “You’re all I have left,” he replied.

“I know, but soon there won’t be _anything_ of me left.”

“Yeah, and I don’t suppose you’d enjoy the other Tranquil’s sense of humour. They’re pretty dry witted.” Even as he made the poor taste in joke, Dean removed the key from his belt hook.

But letting Castiel go would not remove the threat of him being hunted down; and getting out of Kirkwall was no easy feat. He hesitated, fishing for any kind of solution. As the door clicked open and he stepped aside to let Castiel out, a possible answer came to him.

“Go to the Hanged Man in Lowtown,” he said, fiddling with the key. “Find a dwarf named Varric, he’s living in the best room. Tell him... Tell him you have an offer for Hawke, or a message from Bethany. Think up anything that will gain you his protection. You’ll be safe with them.”

It pained him to see the sad look of gratitude on Castiel’s face.

Footsteps clattered towards them and Dean pushed Castiel down the left path. “Quick, this way.”

They only made it two turns before shouting issued behind them. Dean couldn’t run, he was slowing Castiel down. Why was it his fate to lose everyone he cared about?

He grabbed Castiel’s arm. “Listen. _Listen_ : go left, right, then straight until you reach the statue of a slave. Turn right again and you’ll reach the phylactery room. Take yours, destroy it, I don’t care. Then go to the statue in the corner and remove the spear in its hand. A door will open. You’ll escape. Get all that?”

Castiel gave him a shaking, rough kiss, before turning on his heel and sprinting away. Before he turned the corner, however, Mettin and Meredith caught up. Dean tried to pretend he was casting lyrium spells, stumbling in pursuit—anything.

With an angry shout, Castiel summoned a storm of fire that engulfed the corridor, then carried on running. Maker, he was powerful. It knocked Dean backwards, sending him crashing into Meredith, who let out a furious screech.

“After him!” she screamed. Pointing Mettin through the flames. He hesitated.

“I’m not sure my barrier—”

“Do as I command!” Meredith scrambled to her feet and Mettin, petrified, bathed himself in a blue, lyrium-fuelled shield.

Once he was gone, Meredith reached down and dragged Dean onto his feet. “You let him escape!”

“I didn’t!”

“Don’t lie to me!” Her voice terrified him more than the scream of a powerful demon. “I should kill you out right for releasing a malificar!”

“He seized me through the bars, I couldn’t—”

“And you’re so useless that you can’t even shake off a mage locked in a cell?” Her white-blonde hair looked aflame in the orange light. “You’re a disgrace to your family name. I should have discharged you long ago, while you still had a shred of common sense. Castiel’s magic is beyond his control, and now he’s sunk lower than any of us expected.” Meredith shook Dean, sending a spasm of agony down his side. “I’ll see you hang for this.”

Punched with fear, Dean shoved her off, stumbling backwards.

Meredith drew the giant broadsword slung across her back. “Take one more step and it’ll be your last.”

“You’re crazy!” he yelled.

“I am practical!”

Hanging? Dean would rather die fighting. He drew his longsword and Meredith struck it from his grasp before he could blink, sending it clattering across the floor.

Dean held his breath, shut his eyes, and thought of nothing but Castiel.

* * *

 

Still alive. For now.

Torchlight chased away the shadows in Dean’s cell and of all the faces he expected to see, Cullen’s was the last on his list.

“Come to gloat?” asked Dean.

“No.” Cullen looked down at him in pity. “Why did you do it?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Dean mumbled, slumping where he sat against the damp wall. He shivered, feeling exposed without his armour. They’d stripped him down to his smalls and given him a thread-bare shirt and a pair of grim trousers.

“I didn’t always agree with your methods,” said Cullen, “but I respected you. At first I tried to look the other way, but I noticed when your touch started wavering.”

“Spare me,” said Dean.

The firelight glared as Cullen swapped the torch between his hands. “What changed?”

“Just piss off, Cullen.”

Dean watched the light flicker over his knuckles, nursing the empty space in his chest.

“I fell for a mage, once,” said Cullen.

Dean stiffened. “More the fool you.”

“Maybe. She was an elf, beautiful, like all of them, but she had a way with words. I think she saw right through me, she teased me something terrible.” He heard the smile in Cullen’s voice. “I almost lost my head over her but she was conscripted into the Grey Wardens before that happened.”

“Wait...”

“Yes, you know who I mean.”

The Grey Warden who had sacrificed herself to end the Blight. Dean remembered working with her when she returned to save the Circle from blood mages. He recalled her face clear as day, and the way Cullen had reacted at the sight of her. Now it made sense.

“Can’t blame you,” Dean murmured. “She was certainly rare.”

“I can’t blame you either,” Cullen conceded. “I’ve only ever wanted to protect mages, and so have you. Perhaps you _should_ hang for letting Castiel escape, but that’s no sentence for the likes of you and me.”

As Cullen slipped the key into the cell door lock, Dean half expected him to throw in the burning torch and offer him up to Andraste as a symbolic cleansing.

“Bran and Mettin testified in your favour and convinced me to lend my word.” Cullen opened the cell wide and tossed in a diary. Dean picked it up, recognising the tatty leather binding and ripped edges. His father’s journal. “You’ve been dishonourably discharged. If you’re lucky, the Chantry might still have you.”

Dean sat there, numb and weary. “I thought you’d rather see me dead.”

Sighing, Cullen entered the cell and offered his hand. “I never said I liked you.”

He heaved Dean onto his feet.

Only when Dean limped out the inner gate in soiled rags, with no walking cane and nothing but a journal to his name, did it sink in that Dean wasn’t going to die just yet. Sunlight beat down on his face and he burned with shame, avoiding every pair of eyes in the front courtyard.

He’d fallen the farthest after all. It didn’t feel worth the unbearable shame. It didn’t feel worth not knowing if Castiel returned to blood magic. But when he stopped at the lake and stared out at the Chantry atop the city, the lack of anything left in his life was actually...freeing.

He cried bitterly. Time to become a devote man. Maker, he hoped they ate more than bread and piety for breakfast.

 


	8. ACT III

Grand Cleric Elthina accepted Dean without any prying questions. She’d been forewarned that he might show up but, as she said to all who walked through the massive Chantry doors: _it is not my place to form opinions, especially in matters of state._

Dean had always considered such a view as ignorant, but since it spared him a slow death among the destitute in Darktown, he said nothing, and considered that maybe there was something honest about the Chantry’s views after all.

They washed and robed him in an unranked, shapeless uniform. The mellow colours and half-sun on his chest looked foreign and unimposing. As stupid as Dean felt, his new robes were light and comfortable. Without having to carry around armour, he actually felt less crippled and could go half the day without needing his walking stick. It helped that he never had far to walk, but no one minded him taking a stroll into Hightown so long as he didn’t forget his new duties, which were only taxing when he had to sit still for too long.

“It must be a nice change,” said Elthina one day as she came down the main steps. She stopped beside Dean at the chanter’s board and clasped her wrinkled hands together. Looking out over the square, warm light glowing off the white stones, she continued, “I know our pace of life isn’t exciting, but I think that suits you, doesn’t it?”

“I never thought it would,” Dean admitted. He was only twenty-nine but he felt so much older.

“I can’t say I did, either.” She smirked at him. “I was young once, too. Your sacred duty was a hard path to take, even now you commit yourself to His work. It is a sign of your good character.”

“I’m not good at all.” It blurted out of him and Dean cringed. That probably wasn’t the best thing to confide in the cleric who’d sustained his existence for half a year.

“There is no greater devotion than to lay one’s life at the Maker’s feet, there is no better death than to take the blow for others. Letting that mage go was wrong, but you made a heavy sacrifice in an attempt to protect someone weaker than yourself.”

Dean almost choked on a laugh. Weaker? Castiel could floor him with one swipe, let alone burn him to ashes.

“Why does that amuse you?”

“Oh, it doesn’t, trust me.” Sticking his foot right down the rabbit hole, he added, “I just can’t believe an abomination like me isn’t dead yet.”

He’d never have gotten away with saying something like that in the Circle, but dear old Elthina took it metaphorically.

“An abomination would not repent his sins,” she said.

Dean blinked at her, surprised. Could that really apply to him? He clenched one hand, as if he could catch a hold of the emptiness lodged inside his chest.

Smiling, Elthina patted his arm. “Meredith’s anger demeans us all but she will see reason, if the Maker wills it. You have a gentleness that she lacks, and you would be wise to remember that.” Elthina bowed her head and Dean rushed to do the same. “Now, you must excuse me. The gallows needs my attendance. As I said, we must do our part to make the templars see reason.”

“How can you act as if I was never one of them?”

Her smile deepened. “Because you are here now, and that is what matters.” With another bow, she sauntered off.

A little part of the emptiness inside ached less at her words.

No...it wasn’t Elthina...

Dean’s heart lurched into his throat. Castiel! Nearby... Where? The keep—the stairs... Clenching his walking stick, Dean set off at top speed. He lunged along like a pirate on a choppy deck, earning him odd glances from the aristocrats who were out enjoying the tranquil day. 

Sitting and praying, sweeping and studying—it had turned Dean into less of a soldier than his time limping around the gallows. Walking at this speed took frightening effort and his breath came in ragged puffs.

He rounded the street corner, sensing Castiel had already crossed into the next street. Dean glanced up the steps to the (deceased) Viscount’s keep all the same. On he pressed, shoving one merchant out the way. Didn’t Castiel sense him too?

The merchant’s square was just up ahead. Dean took a split second to pause and gasp for air. Onwards again. He reached the next set of steps (Maker curse whoever built a city on a mountainous hillside) and stared out across the market.

There, on the far side, descending into Lowtown...

He caught a glimpse of the back of Castiel’s messy back hair, running off with Isabela; an archer in royal-like armour; and a woman he assumed was Hawke for the unique robes fluttering around her. Robes of the Champion: Saviour of Kirkwall.

Dean slumped against the nearest wall, a mix of relief and regret tearing him up inside as the emptiness grew pronounced again. Castiel was safe, but would it have killed him to spare a glance?

* * *

Two and a half years passed before he felt their bond again.

* * *

At first Dean mistook the inner heat and satisfaction for sunlight streaming in through the window. He’d got the hang of this ‘scholarly work’. None of his writings were publishable (studying didn’t exactly excite him), but expressing and expanding upon his knowledge of magic and history felt damn good. Meredith would have banned his writings immediately in case a mage got the wrong idea. The thought pleased him.

His teacher was a grumpy old sod who drank on the sly, but a young girl studying alongside Dean made it bearable. She laughed too loud and touched Dean’s arm often. Apparently she was taking extra lessons in templar training, against her mother’s wishes, and Dean did his best to discourage her as well. Partly because Mother Helen intimidated the crap out of him.

Joanna sat nearby the day Dean sensed Castiel had entered the Chantry. He dropped his quill, splattering ink across parchment, too afraid to move.

The paralysis didn’t last long. Dean grappled out of his chair, ignoring his partner’s questions, and fled the room.

_Please don’t leave. Please don’t leave._

He staggered downstairs, moving faster than a Dalish elf running downhill, and out onto the left balcony overlooking the main hall. Up on the podium, beneath the looming statue of Andraste, stood the one mage who stole Dean’s breath away.

Dean gripped the railing, staring out like a man possessed.

Castiel.

With him was Isabela and Hawke, the latter talking in earnest with Elthina.

Castiel’s shoulders visibly tensed. He was studying the candles at Andraste’s feet but, bit by bit, he turned. His gaze honed in on Dean and his mouth parted in surprise, or was it dread? His crinkled eyes looked Dean up and down, and Dean glanced down at himself as well.

He laughed. Lay Brothers’ robes probably did look odd on him in Castiel’s eyes.

_I thought I’d never see you again._

As if no time had passed at all, Castiel softened and smiled with open adoration. Dean spread his arms wide and pulled a face, asking, ‘ _What do you think?_ ’

Castiel nodded in approval, glancing at his companions. They paid him no mind.

Every breath felt full and clear. The world no longer felt cold and purposeless. And yet, a flicker of old doubt crept into Dean’s mind: _what if his magic controls me?_ He shook his head. Too many long nights in the Chantry, aching to remember this connection, told him that wasn’t true.

The light blurred and sound muffled in his ears, as if Castiel was at the centre of a dream.

The moment ended when Joanna latched onto Dean’s arm and he almost leapt out of his skin.

“What’s wrong?” she cried.

“Jo! Andraste’s...” Dean bit his tongue before cursing. “Stop sneaking up on me, I’ll have a heart attack.”

Jo laughed. “Oh, I forgot. Sorry, Serah Cripple.”

“If that ever catches on, you better be prepared to take responsibility.”

“Excuse me while I tremble in my skirts.”

He pointed at her nose, about to make some vapid threat, when he spotted Anders slinking into the lower cloisters—the clergy peoples’ private quarters. Out of bounds to the general public. Dean glanced at Castiel, who betrayed nothing untoward.

Pushing Joanna aside, Dean descended the steps into main well.

“Fine then,” Jo huffed. “Brother Robert will be back to check on us soon, you know?”

Dean didn’t reply. He reached the main floor and shuffled along to the dim-lit cloister that Anders had disappeared down. He sensed Castiel approaching from behind, heard his feet jogging across the hall. Torn by longing and suspicion, Dean hesitated.

“Dean, wait!”

That deep, gruff voice. It sounded so familiar, like Castiel had spoken his name only yesterday. Dean turned to face him and waited until he caught up.

“Why is Anders sneaking into the cloisters?” Dean asked, right off.

“I...don’t know.”

Foreboding tainted the joy he felt at seeing Cas. “Don’t lie to me,” Dean whispered.

“I _don’t_ know.” Castiel glared at him, hurt. “I swear. He’s...doing something but I don’t know what. He won’t tell us.”

“So you’re just letting him creep around the Chantry? Doesn’t he hate anything connected to the Circle?”

“We trust him.”

Dean rubbed a hand over the lines in his forehead and took a deep breath.

“If you can’t trust him,” said Castiel, “trust me.”

How he’d like nothing better. Dean shut his eyes, then gave Castiel a weary smile. “I do trust you.”

Castiel reached out and squeezed his shoulder, brushing the tip of his thumb over Dean’s neck. The feeling sent heat blushing up into his face. He stared at Castiel’s lips, but controlled himself, and Dean placed his hand on top of Castiel’s.

“It’s good to see you,” Dean said.

“I apologise. If I’d known you were here...”

“You playing nice with your new friends?”

Castiel smirked. “They are certainly adventurous.”

They stared at each other, smiling, until Dean averted his gaze, if only for the sake of the nearby sisters who’d taken notice of them. He let go of Castiel’s hand and shrugged him off.

“Different setting, but similar rules,” Dean mumbled. “Although I’m positive half the clerics here aren’t as chaste as they claim. Sister Pamela over there, she’s a fiend. The minute this one guy walks into the room, I swear—”

Anders reappeared. His eyes widened at the sight of Dean and his gaze swapped from him to Castiel. Oh Maker, he was coming over. Dean rose to the challenging look in his eye, then thought better of it.

“Well, I never,” said Anders. “Retired already? Aren’t you supposed to be standing around, pretending to guard the Grand Cleric? I didn’t think redundants went in for full dresses.”

Dean gave a bitter smile. “Pink suits me better.”

“Yes, better hides the real damage you and your kind cause.”

“Do you ever give it a rest?” Dean sighed. “ _Hi Dean, how are you?_ ”

Anders sneered and shook his head, then turned to Castiel. “Do you know this man?”

Castiel straightened. “Dean is my friend.”

At first Anders thought he was joking, then his eyes narrowed. “What?”

Oh shit.

Before Castiel could add anything else, Dean threw up his hands. “Alright, mock me however you want. I don’t have to listen to this.” He turned his back on Anders and, as he brushed past, gave Castiel a hard ‘ _be quiet_ ’look.

Castiel must’ve had the sense to be ambiguous about his escape from the gallows three years ago. Dean couldn’t let that fall apart now.

He heard Anders hiss, “You were joking, right?”

“Yes,” said Cas, without feeling. “I was...distracting him. He almost followed you.”

“Oh. Thanks mate.”

Distrust blackened inside Dean again and he clenched his hands, tempted to go back and force out a few answers. Grinning like a demon, however, Pamela sidled up and slung an arm around Dean’s waist.

“Isn’t he just charming,” she drawled. “If I didn’t know any better, and I always do, I’d say you know him _pretty_ well.”

Dean leant over her, ignoring the flip in his stomach. “You know what they say about gossip.”

“Bad for the soul—blah, blah, blah.” Pamela waved her hand as if clearing smoke. “I’m only reporting what my eyes see.”

“You’ll go blind one of these days.”

She tutted, arching one perfect eyebrow. “So defensive. It reveals everything.”

“Yeah, yeah. Alright.”

Escaping her arm before Anders overheard, Dean headed back to the left balcony, where Joanna stood waiting with her arms crossed.

“What was all that about?” She tossed blonde hair over her shoulder, lips skewed.

“What is it, Interrogate Dean Day?” he said. “Nothing, just...someone I promised to see.”

“Did you forget?”

“Almost.”

His eyes slid over to Castiel one last time, before allowing Joanna to take his arm and help him back up the stairs to their desks.

He felt Castiel leave a few minutes later as warmth draining out of him like sand in an hourglass. Conflicted, frustrated, and hopeless, Dean balled his fist around his quill and smashed the nib into the desk, then threw it at the wall.

“Dean!” cried Joanna. He hid his face in his hands. “Dean, what’s wrong?”

 _Get a hold of yourself._ Taking a deep breath,Dean sank back into his chair and gripped the arm rests. “It doesn’t matter,” he said.

“How can it not—”

“Just drop it!” Too loud. He hadn’t meant that. “I’m sorry. Just...”

“Boy, if you got a problem, you better spit it out right now and get it over with,” said a new voice.

Dean tried to jerk around and face his mentor, and regretted the instant resulting pain. “I’m fine, honestly,” he said to his messy parchment instead.

Brother Robert went over to the wall, picked up Dean’s split quill, and gave him a sardonic look. “Oh, you’re _fine_. Yeah I can see that.”

“Lay off, Bobby. The holy talk isn’t going to work.”

Settling a hand on Dean’s desk and leaning over him, Bobby said, “This isn’t about your eternal soul, boy. It’s about you.” He ground his jaw, making his gray beard look rounder than usual. “What’s going on that you feel possessed to break an expensive quill?”

“Something I’d rather forget.”

Bobby grunted. “I see.” Then he put a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “You know, if you ever need to talk to someone...”

“What? No! Could everyone stop prying? I’ll be fine. Just let me cool off.”

With a shrug and heavy sigh, Bobby folded his arms. “Alright, fine. But don’t break anymore quills or I’ll rip you a new one.”

“Sure,” said Dean. “Great talk.”

* * *

A courier came for Dean the next day with a slip of wax-sealed paper. Judging by the lack of a seal in the spluttery white wax, nobody of importance had sent it.

“Who’s it from?” he asked.

“Dunno,” the elf replied. “Tallish fella in a boring cloak. Didn’t give a name. Why don’t you just read it?”

Dean took himself off to a private corner of the cloisters and unfolded the single sheet of parchment.

_I understand that we both have more freedom to go where we please. Meet me an hour before sunset in the eastern court, Hightown. Be careful. It gets dangerous come nightfall. Don’t worry, I’ll walk you back._

No signed name. He hoped the abrupt tone could only mean it was Castiel.

Evening couldn’t come fast enough. Dean made some excuse about meeting a man who had a collection of papers on the effects of lyrium in the Fade, and eventually, with walking stick in hand, left for the eastern court.

Long shadows swallowed the streets and fading sunlight washed rooftops in gold. Dean felt electric and giddy. The closer he got, the stronger he felt, until he entered the courtyard and saw Castiel waiting for him, as promised. He stood in the darkness of a narrow side passage and Dean raced toward him.

Hidden in the quiet twilight, Dean wrapped Castiel in his arms, holding him tight. He grinned, filled with the urge to laugh and cry all at once. It came out as a weird, gasping chuckle. Castiel felt warm and sturdy, and Dean just couldn’t let go. He had so much to repent still, so many sins to wash away, but he couldn’t deny himself this one moment of bliss.

Eventually, Castiel eased Dean off of him. “We shouldn’t chat for long,” he said. “Hawke warned Meredith to stay away from me but I don’t doubt that the templars would recapture me given half the chance.”

Dean nodded. “I’m glad you got on Hawke’s good side.”

“Mentioning her sister was a good idea. Plus, I think the pirate likes me. She calls me ‘angel’ a lot.”

Another wave of longing came over Dean. He’d missed three years of Castiel’s life, while other people got to share his company and give him nicknames. “Angel? What, are you working part time at the Blooming Rose?”

Castiel squinted at him and tilted his head, not getting it.

“You’ve been out for three years and you haven’t been to the Blooming Rose?” Dean said, laughing. “Get one of your friends to explain it.”

“Aren’t you my friend?”

Dean’s laughter died down and his heart beat faster. He cupped one of Castiel’s cheeks and the mage stepped closer.

“Not quite,” Dean whispered.

They came together like fire and snow. Castiel’s kiss melted through him: soft and tender, and Dean burned with enough wonder to light the sun. They rushed nothing, both savouring the brush of lips and gentle caress of rubbing noses.

“Leaving you has haunted me every day,” breathed Cas.

“You had to go.”

“But it cost you everything.”

Dean smiled and placed another kiss on the corner of Castiel’s mouth. “Not everything.”

But Castiel hung his head. “Dean, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be like that. It doesn’t matter.” He bumped Castiel’s chin up with a finger. “Besides, I quite like the Chantry. It gets a bit tedious and the sermons can drone on and _on_ , but I’m still standing. And you got what you wanted. You’re free.”

Castiel’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Do you still think the Circle is a good thing?”

Dean tensed. “Well...maybe not in Kirkwall, but yes. I do.” It clearly wasn’t the answer Castiel wanted to hear, but Dean wasn’t going to lie. “Do we have to talk about that right now?”

“Yes.” A severe, desperate note strained Castiel’s voice. “Ten years—a hundred years from now, someone like me will love someone like you, but if there is no change there will always be templars to tear them apart.”

That struck him. Dean no longer considered himself a templar, but it stung to hear of his old Order spoken about in such a way. Perhaps because it was true.

“And what would you have me do?” asked Dean.

“Runaway with me.”

No hesitation. No understanding. Straight up: _runaway._

“What will that achieve? I—I can’t!”

Castiel gripped his hand. “Why not? We could actually be together.”

“I—I still depend on lyrium. I always will.”

“That’s it? We can get that! The Coterie, the black market. We’ll go to the dwarven mountains if we have to.”

Dean just shook his head, too wrapped up in the last remaining shred of honour and duty he had left. The clerics, he liked them. And Elthina! She had gifted him a new purpose. He’d rather tell the world he loved an apostate than run off in the night.

Castiel’s shoulders slumped and he let go of Dean’s hand. “Then you should have a normal life,” he said, “not be tied down to a fugitive with no future.”

“Don’t make this an ultimatum. Please, don’t leave me.” Dean felt sick at the very thought. “Not again.”

“Do you mean that? We have no life here.”

Running away was perhaps their smartest option, and while Dean didn’t fancy sneaking off at sunset every other day, he feared the insecurity of a life on the run. His body wasn’t up to it. If Castiel existed in his world again, he could make do.

“Cas, for three years I have lain awake every night aching for you.” He brushed his hand over Castiel’s cheek. “I’m still terrified I’ll wake up. If we have to run away, then so be it, but let’s be sensible about this. I’m not as capable as I used to be, I haven’t been for a long time. It would take a miracle to get us offshore without anyone noticing. I know I’m not a criminal but I think the Chantry is my last leg standing.”

“Very funny.”

Dean shrugged. “I’ve been given a second chance, Cas, not a clean slate. Do you understand?”

Sighing, Castiel leant into the hand on his face. “I understand, Dean.”

Had they ever fought or mistrusted each other? As Dean absorbed the touch of Castiel’s gruff chin, he almost suffocated knowing that every minute counted.

“I love you,” Dean said. “I’ve been holding back from saying that. You should know it, though. Hear it. We can’t know what will happen tomorrow and I don’t want you to have any doubts about that.”

Castiel’s face transformed into a vulnerable expression that Dean had only seen on him once before. When Cas pulled Dean to his lips this time, it was harsh and consuming, and all the answer Dean needed.

Delight spread over his body when he caught Castiel off guard and pinned him against the wall. They stumbled a bit and Cas had to balance Dean by grabbing his waist, making him blush with embarrassment, but Castiel let him hold him there. Place kisses on his neck. Play his hands over his chest. They fit together with practised ease but by now the sun had set.

The Guard would be making their rounds and unsavoury types would be lurking in the shadows, searching for oblivious folk like Dean and Cas who sensed nothing but each other.

Uncoiling from their heated embrace, Castiel gave Dean one last kiss before walking him back to the Chantry.

“Will you be alright?” Dean asked at the chanter’s board.

Castiel smiled. “You don’t need to worry.”

He supposed he didn’t. Runaway Rouge Cas with lightning up his sleeve had survived this long.

Castiel bowed his head. “Goodnight Dean.” Not waiting for a reply, he turned about and ran off.

 

 


	9. Better Late Than Never

Castiel next saw Dean in Darktown, in his tiny little hovel of a home. It consisted of two rooms: bedroom and kitchen in one, a ‘bathroom’ in the other. Despite Dean’s jokes, Castiel cottoned on that he didn’t actually care about the depravity, only that Castiel wasn’t living without a roof at all. He sensed Dean’s relief, his concern, his reflexive will to protect.

They spoke of many things and it brightened Cas to engage Dean in real conversation, not always revolving around disputes or magic. Dean adored his fellow Lay Sister, ‘Jo’, like a little sister—probably glad to have someone who reminded him of his lost younger brother—but feared the wrath of this girl’s mother. When Helen said _get to it_ , you got to it like a dwarf out of ale (whatever that meant).

Dean’s mentor and tutor, ‘Bobby’, had grown on Dean despite his cantankerous nature, and it sounded to Castiel as if they were more alike than Dean cared to admit. Then there was Sister Pamela, who Dean teased would sweep him off his feet one of these days. Castiel shoved him in response.

Mostly, they spoke about Castiel’s time with Hawke and how he helped Anders heal the sick. Dean’s jealousy was obvious even without their bond, but Castiel managed to sooth it away with his kisses.

Which led to shedding their clothes, and soon they heated the dank room with touch and gasp alone. He let Dean back him up into his work bench, making his potion bottles jingle. They ended up laughing at something stupid, clinging to each other in tears—something to do with Varric’s beard falling onto his chest—and, in the end, Dean wrestled Castiel around and bent him over the bench.

Castiel shivered with pleasure as Dean trailed gentle kisses behind his ear and whispered sweet praises against his neck.

He clung to the bench when Dean pressed into him and reached around to grasp his length. The bottles rattled now, dropping to the floor.

Loving Dean had shown that every touch, every whisper, every kiss could have a colour of its own. It could wipe away his anger at the world, if just for a while, and fill him with a burst of inspiration. Nothing and everything mattered, so long as their differences didn’t tear them apart.

When Castiel came, there was nothing to stop him from crying out and he surrendered entirely to Dean’s touch. His head spun, eyesight wavered. Their life was a burst of stolen moments.

One day, he prayed, they wouldn’t have to hide in Darktown just to steal an hour together.

* * *

 

Shutting his eyes and letting magic blush down his arm, Castiel healed the last of a young girl’s fever. She blinked her elven eyes at him, a smile spreading across her face. She looked so in awe that it made him chuckle.

“It’s gone!”

“Yes,” said Castiel. “Only took three days.”

“Thank you, serah!” She slipped off the make-shift bed and onto her feet. “I can go home!”

Castiel took her arm before she could run off. “Wait until morning. It’s not safe at night. Why don’t you get some proper sleep?”

He settled the girl back into bed and glanced around Anders’ humble clinic. Despite its depraved look, it had a calming atmosphere, particularly at night when the lanterns were lit. Castiel smiled inside. It felt so _good_ to use his magic without fear—to use it for a purpose.

“Cas, I just got word.”

Castiel turned to see Anders jogging into the clinic. The man tied his golden-straw hair back into a half tail as he crossed the room, heading for his desk. He swept up his shoulder cowl and slung it on, the emerald feathers fluttering as he moved. Castiel waited for him to elaborate:

“Meredith and Orsino have come to a head,” Anders explained. “Things will go awry tonight. Hawke wants all of us there to support her,” he reattached his staff and seared Cas with a dark look, “and I’ll be damned if we leave her on a night like tonight.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Anders shook himself and he looked away, flustered. “Nothing. Come on.” He rushed back across the clinic and threw open the door.

“Wait, I can’t!” said Cas. Conscious of their sleeping patients, he followed Anders outside and shut the door softly. “I’m meeting someone.” He hadn’t seen Dean in a week, and while that wasn’t anything to cry over, it still ached when he couldn’t feel their cursed bond. The constant reconnecting and disconnecting felt worse than simply being separated for good.

Anders eyebrows drew together. “This concerns us all,” he said. “Tonight will decide the future of every mage in Thedas and you, of all people, should understand how important that is.”

An impossible weight settled on Castiel’s shoulders. How could Anders be sure that tonight would be any different than usual? Meredith would scream at Orsino. Hawke would tell Meredith to shut up. Orsino would puff like a chicken and praise Hawke’s tenacity.

Had an agreement been drawn up? Were the templars prepared to change? Castiel doubted that. The vibe coming from Anders, however...

“Will it take long?” Castiel asked. Maybe he could slip away when no one was watching.

Anders smiled. “Not long at all.”

* * *

 

“I will have the tower searched, top to bottom!” cried Meredith.

“You cannot do that—you have no right!” replied First Enchanter Orsino.

“I have every right. You are harbouring blood mages, and I intend to route them out before they infect this city.”

Orsino threw up his arms, exasperated and furious. “Blood magic! Where do you _not_ see blood magic? My people cannot sneeze without you accusing them of corruption.”

“The way you two carry on,” Hawke injected. “People will talk.”

Castiel ground his jaw and turned his back on them, staring off down the street. It was going exactly as he had suspected it would, although he had to admit, he didn’t think even Meredith would declare a purge on the mages’ tower. A purge meant massacre. False accusations. Frightened mages. An awful combination that would only strengthen her claim.

Sighing, he returned to the argument at hand, staring up at the Chantry peeking over the rooftops in Hightown. The stars shimmered like cleansing magic. If Hawke didn’t quell this soon, Castiel was going to be late.

“You would cast us all as villains, but it is not so!” Orsino was saying.

To everyone’s surprise, Meredith actually looked upset. “I know,” she said. “And it breaks my heart to do it, but we must be vigilant. If you cannot tell me another way; do not brand _me_ a tyrant!”

Listening to this only wound Castiel up more and more, and he clenched his fists to keep from blurting out a sharp retort. Anders noticed and squeezed his elbow.

Orsino shook his head and muttered, “This is getting us nowhere. Grand Cleric Elthina will put a stop to this.”

He made to walk off but Meredith seized his arm and dragged him back. Her voice grated like a sword against a grind stone. “You will not bring her Grace into this,” she cried. It was hard to tell if Meredith feared being stopped, or feared Elthina’s opinion of her sinking even lower.

At that moment, Anders strode forward, speaking loud for everyone to hear, and Castiel cringed. _Not long at all_. What a joke, especially if Anders felt compelled to join the debate.

“The Grand Cleric cannot help you,” he said.

Meredith reared her outrage round on him. “Explain yourself, mage.”

“I will not stand by and watch you treat all mages like criminals,” Anders stamped his staff against the ground, “while those who would lead us bow to their templar jailors.”

“How dare you,” growled Orsino.

Castiel tensed for a fight. He hovered his hand behind his back, prepared to draw his staff.

“The Circle has failed us, Orsino,” Anders pressed on. In his passion, the spirit of Justice who shared his body broke forth and spoke with Anders as one. “Even you should be able to see that. The time has come to act.”

Another fight? Really? Of all the solutions, did Anders think that facing Meredith head on could end well? Castiel glanced longingly at the Chantry again. Hopefully Dean would forgive him for being late. But as Anders carried on, Castiel realised he wasn’t making ready to do battle. That scared him more than it should.

“There can be no half measures,” Anders said, staring at the floor now.

Hawke touched his arm, sensing the same foreboding. “Anders, what have you done?”

Anders ignored her. “There can be no turning back.”

For once, no one had anything to say. All eyes were on Anders, waiting for him to turn into a demon or admit to burning down the gallows. Castiel glanced at Isabela and saw she approved of Anders’ bold speech.

Just as Meredith was about to speak, a faint rumbling echoed through the streets. It resonated from the district above them, shaking Hightown with enough strength to send tremors beneath their feet in Lowtown.

And then, a blazing red light erupted from the Chantry. It illuminated the night sky like holy fire, but it wasn’t until the building began to churn and crumble that Castiel realised its destructive power. His lungs compressed, his heart died. _Dean!_ Every brick ascended around the light like a tornado of carnage, spiralling together into one broken mess.

The air stilled for a second, sucked into the centre of the vortex, and a cataclysmic bang deafened them all. It exploded, sending rock and fire raining down upon the city.

“NO!” screamed Castiel.

Beside him, one of Hawke’s companions fell to his knees in despair, crying out Elthina’s name.

“This is what you meant by change?” Castiel roared. Did his spirit feel weaker, or was it just the shock? _Dean._

“I removed the chance of compromise, because there can be no compromise!” Anders roared back.

Cas couldn’t breathe—didn’t care. He’d never agreed to this. Wait! This was why Anders had wanted to sneak into the Chantry! Oh Maker, the blame did lay on him, too, in part. He’d shared a hand in tearing apart Dean’s world, _again_.

Anders, mages, templars: they could have their fight, but it wasn’t worth Dean’s life.

“You can rip each other to shreds, kill each other all you want, but I shan’t stand by any of you!” Castiel cried, at last feeling the punch of what he’d just witnessed. And yet, he couldn’t believe it. Not Dean.

Holding himself together, Castiel shoved Anders aside, skirted around Orsino and sprinted up the steps to Hightown. Behind him, he heard Meredith bellow, “As Knight-Commander of Kirkwall, I hear by invoke the right of annulment. Every mage in the Circle is to be executed, immediately!”

Castiel uttered every prayer possible as he ran, gasping for breath, wishing he had wings. What if he just needed to be that little bit faster? What if Dean blamed him? What if he never saw Dean’s bright, smiling eyes again?

Castiel choked on that thought, ragged and drained. He should have convinced Dean to runaway with him.

After passing through district after district, Castiel eventually stumbled into Hightown’s market and stopped to catch his breath. Fire roared in the next street. It glowed against the dark sky. Castiel pushed onward despite the bile rising in his throat.

_Dean!_

He sensed him, felt him nearby. The complete feeling burst beneath his chest like magma and Castiel struggled to contain his tears of relief. The balcony above the market had caved in beneath a massive block of falling Chantry and he rushed up the steps to find Dean groaning beneath the debris. Dust, sweat, and granite covered his face.

“You’re okay!” Castiel panted, falling to his knees beside him.

“Cas?” Dean stared up with woozy eyes. “I don’t know about ‘okay’. Wouldn’t it be funny if my other side is crippled too?”

“Not really.” He stroked the dirt from Dean’s forehead and his lover smiled.

“You’re late.”


	10. Firelight in the Night Sky

As promised, Dean arrived at the market after nightfall. He preferred meeting after dark but, after a while, the emptiness had given him the creeps. The balcony offered a protective hiding place and at least no one could sneak up on him from there.

So he waited. And waited...

Castiel had a habit of being late but this went beyond the usual.

When the earthquake struck, Dean had almost run off to find him. Then red light scorched the night sky. He couldn’t see where it came from, his position was too sheltered, but its destruction was evident. He stood paralysed, watching. Only when a ball of rock fell towards him did he think to move, too late.

Screaming. Burning. Smoke. A pounding in his head. Dean couldn’t move his legs. He tried to squeeze out of the debris trapping him but it only caused more pain, and he fell back, panting in agony. Patience. Castiel would find him.

“CAS!” he yelled. “Son of a— _Cas_!” Dean yelled himself hoarse, growing woozier by the second. He must have hit his head.

He’d almost forgotten what he was waiting for when he heard Castiel’s blessed voice at last.

“You’re late,” Dean said. “Couldn’t have picked a better day. Get me out of here, will you?” Another dizzying flush of blood pumped around his head and he lay back, about to black out.

“Dean, what is it?”

Soft hands stroked over Dean’s cheeks and behind his head. He winced. Without a word, Castiel scrunched his face in concentration and cool magic filled the back of Dean’s head. The throbbing subsided.

Dean smiled, relieved. He knew he could depend on Cas.

“What happened?”

Ignoring the question, Castiel looked over at the rubble burying his legs. “One thing at a time,” he mumbled.

Castiel looked exhausted and Dean doubted he had the energy to use the required magic, but he kept quiet, troubled by the volume of screaming in the streets. Had it gotten louder?

Holding his breath, Castiel threw up his arms and the air pulled in around them. At first the rubble trembled, then rose block by block above Dean, until he could flip onto his stomach and crawl out of harm’s way. Castiel released the magic with a heavy gasp and the rocks thudded back down.

“Let me...see your...leg...” Cas panted.

“No, it’s fine for now.”

“Dean.”

“Take a break, alright?” Dean held out his hand and Castiel hesitated, glancing around the market place below. “What’s wrong?”

With a forlorn sigh, Castiel settled next to him and intertwined their fingers. He trembled so hard that anyone would think they sat in the middle of a heavy rain storm. Dean stroked the back of his lover's hand.

“What is it? What happened? What was that blast of light?”

Castiel shut his eyes and swallowed hard. “The Chantry has been destroyed.”

Dean’s head jerked back. “Excuse me?”

“The Chantry: it’s _gone_ , Dean.”

He stopped stroking Castiel’s hand. Horror twisted Dean’s insides. He looked at the rubble, at the burning sky, at everything and nothing, searching for a different answer. Why would anyone destroy a Chantry—you couldn’t just _blow it up._

“No. No that can’t be right,” Dean said.

“I wish I could tell you different.”

“But if...” Dean’s heart clenched. “If that’s true...then Helen and Jo... And Bobby. Pamela. Elthina.”

Castiel twisted against his side. “I’m so sorry.” His sincerity left no room for doubt.

A vast pit opened up in Dean’s stomach and his mouth fell open. The crush of so many lost lives—lives he cherished—shredded him to pieces. Maker have mercy, judging by the vortex he’d seen...

Why did everyone he cared for die? Why did his world keep raining fire down upon his head? His eyes burned with tears and his lips trembled, but no matter how hard Dean swallowed, he couldn’t stop the tears from flowing.

Dead. The Chantry. His new home.

“Who would do this?” he growled.

Castiel’s frown deepened. “Anders.”

“ _What_?” Dean’s eyes widened, quick to feel rage. “Why? Why?!”

“He wants war. He thinks removing the Chantry is the only way to ensure mages rights are addressed and not merely compromised on. He has a point, but this...”

“He has a point? Oh good. I’m so glad he has a _point_. I’m just so glad he’s murdered innocent people to piss off every templar who ever looked at him funny.”

“I didn’t mean it like that! And neither does Anders.”

“You’re defending him?”

“No! Well... It’s not like he didn’t try to be peaceful. No one listened. They all made fun of him, even Hawke! I’m not defending him, but he felt driven—”

A worse realisation dawned on Dean and he backed away from Cas as much as his body would allow. “That’s why you called me out here,” Dean said. “That’s why you were late.”

“I didn’t know this would happen!” Castiel cried, lurching after him. “You have to believe me. I didn’t want this. I had no part in it.” From the way Castiel cringed, Dean didn’t know if he should trust him on that.

In fact, he didn’t know what hurt more: the distressed look in Castiel’s eyes or the fact that he had played into the hands of an apostate.

“You once asked me to trust you,” said Castiel. “You asked me to chase you in the dark and love you when no other Circle mage dared to love their own kind. Now I’m asking you to trust me. Have I not earned that much?”

Dean shook his head, his heart splitting in two. He looked up at the place where he’d seen the blinding light and let out a shuddering, tearful breath. “You were asking me to trust you when I set you free.”

“Yes, and it was you who led me to Anders. We could go round in circles!” Castiel crawled into Dean’s personal space and gripped the front of his robes. “I would never do anything to hurt you, indirectly or directly. Why can’t you believe that?”

“Because you’ve always sided with the Libertarians. What’s to say you wouldn’t go so far as to join the Resolutionists.”

Castiel shook him and he winced. “Screw every single fraternity! I’m not asking you to join a movement, I’m asking you to join _me._ ”

“What?”

“You have to choose,” Castiel whispered. “Meredith has invoked the right of annulment.”

Dean’s eyes widened again. He longed to be anywhere else in the world, to be _anyone_ else—an elven slave in Orlais would do. _Maker, stop the stars from spinning._ Throw it all away just because one mage asked him to...

“Rejoin your Templar Order,” Castiel said, “or come with me. Runaway. We should have done it months ago.”

That hideous word. “Runaway?” Dean snarled. “Have you no sense of responsibility?”

A stupid, soft smile came over Cas and he utter a sorrowful laugh. “You are my responsibility, from the moment I saved your life. We are not like Anders, and we are not abominations. Together, we could be free.

“You’ve served the Chantry almost your whole life and so have I, one way or another. We owe them nothing. What we owe is to the Maker, and I don’t think He condones this reign of lyrium and lightning, each fighting to control the other.” Castiel let go of Dean’s robes and took his hand instead, head bowed. “ _Escape_ with me, Dean. Please.”

The smoky air blew across Dean’s face and his eyes reddened, worse than before. He felt ten inches tall. He didn’t know what to say. He knew what he _wanted_ to say, but getting it out... As Castiel waited for an answer, he set about healing the fresh bloodied welts in Dean’s right leg.

Gathering his courage, Dean said, “I’d do anything for you, Cas.”

The last rays of magic faded into Dean’s leg and Castiel placed a gentle hand on his knee. “You too, Dean.”

Scooping his arms underneath Dean’s shoulders, Castiel managed to heave both of them off the ground. They clung to each other’s arms and Dean gave into Castiel’s magnetic gaze. What was it like to wake up and see those eyes staring back at him?

“Have you decided?” asked Castiel.

Dean took a deep, sombre breath. He had much to say, and so much weary anger to address, but for now: “My father really would have disowned me,” he replied, then he gave Castiel a playful jostle. “Lead the way, Cas. I’ll never be far behind. Or at least, I’ll try not to be.”

Castiel's severe gaze melted and he gave Dean a very soft, very tender kiss. 

Things would be better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. This has been the most enjoyable piece of fan fiction I've ever written and it warms the cockles of me 'eart to know others enjoyed reading it. So thank you, truly.
> 
> Once DA3 is released (and I've played it) I'm hoping to continue Dean and Castiel's story as they survive through the inquisition. I can't wait!


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